


Whispers of Arsenic and Anarchy

by ShhImWriting



Category: Hatchetfield Universe - Team StarKid
Genre: 1940’s post war, Anarchists, Autistic Hannah Foster, Autistic Paul Matthews, Beanies is a dance hall, Expect loads of self-indulgent Paulkins fluff, Film Noir AU, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I wrote a Noir!Paulkins AU, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Murder Most Foul, Murder Mystery, PEIP bro’s are Private Investigators, Paul Matthews is a SIMP, Paul’s a reporter, Poisoning, Surprise I have no self control, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, it depends on how impatient I am, kinda slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28269546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShhImWriting/pseuds/ShhImWriting
Summary: Hatchetfield, 1946After the Second World War has come to an end, the citizens of Hatchetfield move on in life, blissful in the presence of music and life and laughter.But when a major executive of a manufacturing company is found dead on the beach, murder most foul becomes the towns biggest story.Enter Paul Matthews, a mild-mannered reporter for the Hatchetfield Gazette who gets stuck with the story.In the wake of red-herrings, riots, and a trail of deaths that seems to lead to one killer, can Paul, with the help of the spunky barmaid, Emma, stop the killing?—Basically, I got impatient and wrote a Noir Paulkins AU in the middle of writing Until it Sleeps, in spite of having a bunch of other WIP’s I need to finishReally hope you guys enjoy!!!
Relationships: Becky Barnes/Tom Houston, Hannah Foster & Ethan Green, Hannah Foster & Lex Foster, Lex Foster/Ethan Green, Paul Matthews & Emma Perkins, Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins, Xander Lee/John McNamara
Comments: 41
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I debated posting this until after I finished Until It Sleeps (WHICH I AM NOT ABANDONING- also, I haven’t forgotten about Let Justice be Done, there’s just some serious writers block there), but I’m impatient and have no self-control. 
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy!!!!

October 24th, 1946

Hatchetfield Docks

The cool breeze in the early autumn air seemed to reverberate between the large and tall buildings of Hatchetfield. Because of this, the wind seemed to howl loudly, deafening out the laughter of most...making a lot of sounds and sights imperceptible to those who sought a night of fun. 

On evenings such as this, most people find themselves wandering into the burgeoning dance clubs and bars to catch a hint of the sweet jazz which is played by small bands, or on crackling record players. If they feel lucky, they might meet with some friends to play cards and win a few bucks, or taste some of the quality booze that many of these clubs and dance halls have to offer. Regardless, the night was young and citizens always found the time to not waste it. 

However, because most people found it far more fun to find themselves in the presence of friends and the conduct of people who would be considered seedy. If you were secretive enough, and you didn't get caught, then you could do anything you wanted.

Anything.

The lapping of the waves against the gentle shoreline were like a lullaby to the many teenagers, who found this Friday night to be the perfect chance to smoke a cigarette out of the prying eyes of their parents, who often spend time listening to the radio rather than going out with friends. 

Alexandra Foster leaned up against her boyfriend, Ethan as they walked amongst friends down the beachside, their bare feet against the sand filling them with a chill that was sent up their spines as the weather would undoubtedly get cooler within the next few weeks, as it always did in Michigan, this time of year. Their shoes and socks had been abandoned on the boardwalk, and their trousers rolled up so the cool water could lap up on top of their feet, making them squeal with delight as Billy offered them all a light from his prized pearl-handled lighter. Behind her, her little sister, Hannah was nestled into her hip, her dark eyes scanning the beach nervously, almost as if she were waiting for something to happen. 

Beside them, sat Alice Woodward, who was fiddling nervously with her light pink dress. Deblina Rutherford, who preferred to go by Deb, and was straightening her trousers and suspenders as she offered Alice, who was without a doubt smitten with her, a cigarette. Next to them, was Billy Thomas, a scrawny boy who always had a pack of Camels or Old Gold’s on him, who was arguing with his sister, the small and feisty Betty Thomas. 

They originally hadn’t made plans to go down to the beach at this time of night, Their story had been that they would go to Beanies, the dance hall, and bar for an ice cream soda or some story that would appease Alice’s father. Really, for Lex, it was an escape from the shitty tenement building she and her sister lived in with their mother. Either way, everyone knew that if kids wanted to avoid the prying eyes of adults and the police, they would find the beaches of Hatchetfield the perfect escape. The perfect place for anyone to do anything and get away with it. 

“C’mon, Alice,” Billy jeered, “Take a hit.”

Alice smiled nervously and looked down, “I don’t think I ought to…”

“She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to, Billy,” Deb said calmly, tucking a stray russet curl underneath her newsboy cap to conceal the long locks her parents all but demanded she maintain. 

“That’s not how it works!” Betty complained, taking a long drag from her cigarette, “You want to hang out with us, you need to take a hit!” 

“Well, then,” Deb smiled, grabbing a second cigarette from Billy’s open pack of Camel’s, “I guess I’ll smoke one for her.”

Expertly, Deb balanced two cigarettes between her fingers, on one hand, as she wrapped another arm around Alice, smirking at Betty and Billy’s deliberately confused faces. Hannah giggled from Lex’s side as Deb expertly alternated between taking drags from each. 

Deb smiled down at her, “See? Lex’s sister thinks it’s cool!” 

Lex chuckled, “Yeah, well...we ain’t settin’ the example for her,'' she looked down at her giggly little sister, a smile of her own working onto her face, “You got that, Banana? No cigarettes for you!” 

“Got it, Lexi,” Hannah smiled, before burrowing into Ethan’s jacket. 

Billy groaned, “What’d you have to bring her for?” 

“You kidding?” Ethan said, “You think we’re gonna leave her at the lousy tenement with Pamela of all people?”

Everyone seemed to nod in agreement. Everyone who was anybody knew that Pamela Foster was a bitch. It was lucky enough that they hadn’t been evicted from their tenement building with as much misconduct she was caught up in. Everyone knew the breadwinner in the family was Lex, who worked in Ol’ Frank Pricely’s penitentiary (which was Lex’s favorite word to use when describing Frank’s toy store). Sometimes Ethan and his father Tony would spot Lex a few bucks so she could feed Hannah while she used most of her earnings to pay rent, but they knew that it was best for Lex and Ethan to keep the sweet little girl away from her mother.

Deb took a long drag from one of the cigarettes on her hand as Betty withdrew a pack of cards from a small pocketbook she carried around with her , “So what we thinkin’ tonight? Gin rummy?”

“Nah,” Billy shook his head as they all took their seats on the sand, “Let's play BlackJack...I’ll bet my Old Golds!”

“Where’d you get those anyhow?” Alice asked, “My dad won’t even let me near the counter in the drug store if they’re selling them.”

Everyone seemed to chuckle lightly at that. While everyone knew that Pamela Foster was the least attentive parent ever, they also knew that Bill Woodward was the most attentive, especially since Alice’s mother divorced him and ran off to Clivesdale. Alice's father worked for the local newspaper, the Hatchetfield Gazette, and worked the city beat, which meant he most likely knew everything about everyone without even realizing it. It was a miracle that Deb had been able to sneak Alice out without Bill realizing.

As Betty began to deal the cards, Lex smiled at her sister, “You can go explore, if you want, just stay where I can see you, got it?” 

The little girl nodded, but her eyes suddenly lacked the excitement they’d held earlier when they’d left the tenement building. 

“You okay, Banana?” Ethan asked, his voice calm as he noticed her apparent distress.

“Beginning,” the girl murmured, “Webby says bad night. Kilgore. Arsenic.”

For a moment, Lex and Ethan just looked at the girl, before she turned without another word and went to go explore the beach. 

Once Hannah was out of earshot, Billy loudly groaned, “She still believe in that quack on your street?” 

Lex sighed and nodded. 

They were fairly certain that Hannah’s “Webby”, was actually the fortune teller from the rinky-dink tarot shop just a block away from the tenement building. They’d only entered the small shop once, as Hannah had wanted to look at the dried flowers and calming scents that made Lex feel nauseous. However, the store was owned by a pale-haired woman named Rose Webster, so when Hannah went around talking about “Webby” who knew of the future, they just assumed it was her. Though most of Rose Webster’s predictions were bullshit, Lex had to admit that Hannah’s Webby came very close. 

“Alright,” Betty said with a sigh, “Who’s dealin’-”

_”AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”_

A blood-curdling shriek made Lex and Ethan jump to their feet as they saw the figure of Hannah tearing towards them, her eyes wide as she collided with Lex, sobbing slightly. Lex instinctually wrapped her arms around Hannah as Ethan looked around. 

“Shh, Hannah,” Lex soothed her shaking sister, “Shh...it’s okay...I’ve got you…”

“Bad night,” Hannah whimpered, “Bad blood…”

Ethan turned to look at the place from which they’d seen Hannah run and walked over to investigate while Lex continued to soothe her sister. 

“Bad blood, Lexi…” Hannah murmured as Alice and Deb stood to aid in comforting her, “Bad blood...Beginning…”

Lex looked up just in time to see Ethan tearing back towards them from the spot they’d seen Hannah running from. His eyes were wide as he made it over to them, and though he was mostly shrouded in the light of the moon, Lex realized with a sickening pang in her stomach that he looked like he was about to be sick. 

“I-um…” he stammered, “I think we should call the police…”

“Why?” Lex asked, moving past him to see what the fuss was about. Ethan and Hannah grappled at her arms, trying to stop her. 

“Lexi, you don’t wanna go over there,” Ethan reasoned, his voice shaky in a way Lex was fairly certain she’d never heard him talk like. 

Still, she moved forward and tried to see in the darkness what had spooked her sister and boyfriend, Alice, Deb, Betty, and Billy all trailing close behind her. 

It wasn’t long before she found it.

At first, it looked like someone had forgotten a carpetbag or something on the side of the beach, almost as if it had been washed ashore, but as Lex got closer and the moonlight highlighted the crevices and curves, it became very clear that it most certainly was not an abandoned piece of luggage. 

Alice screamed as they all realized what they were looking at. 

It was a man, crumpled into the sand laying as still as a ragdoll. Though the moonlight was dim, Lex could see that his expensively tailored clothes were dripping wet from the lakewater, the shades of grey offset by a salmon-colored tie and a matching pocket-square in his breast pocket. In his hands, he held a bronze pocket watch which was clutched desperately as though it was a lifeline. His hair was obviously a light shade of red, or a dark shade of blond, and was neatly combed and gelled off to the side of his head, and his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. 

His eyes were wide and his face looked flushed, but he wasn’t breathing. His face was frozen in one final look of desperation as his muscles stiffened and death had claimed him, lying limp on the sand for them to find. 

“That’s Andy Kilgore!” Billy exclaimed, his voice shaky as they all looked on in shock and awe at the dead man, “My dad works for him!” 

“Well...he’s dead now,” Deb said with a shake of her head as she hugged Alice closer, allowing her to look away from the sight. 

“May God rest his soul,” Alice muttered. 

Lex stared down at the man. Everyone knew that Andrew Kilgore was the head of a major manufacturing company in Hatchetfield. He was easily one of the richest men in town since his wife had died years before, next to the Monroes and the Wentworths. He’d even been leading a crusade to weed out the remaining sect of Anarchists that remained in Hatchetfield following the war...a sect that Lex, Ethan, and Hannah all belonged to. 

Despite the man being dead in front of her, Lex couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him. He’d been persecuting the basis of belief that she hoped would deem her loved ones free and owned the building that she and her sister lived in. Though some people would mourn for the sake of Hatchtefield’s economy, Lex knew that her neighbors like Miss Perkins on the third floor would not mourn. 

Still, she knew that life in Hatchetfield was going to get all the more interesting.

A rich and powerful man was found dead on the beach…that would make the headlines sing.   
  


And so began the case of Arsenic and Anarchy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...so, sorry Andy Kilgore stans, he do be the first victim. 
> 
> I HAVENT ABANDONED ‘Until it Sleeps’ OR ‘Let Justice Be Done’ BUT BECAUSE I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL I WENT AHEAD AND PUBLISHED THIS FIRST CHAPTER  
> I am still working hard on Until it Sleeps, but I got impatient and really wanted to post this. Updates for this one might be a little sporadic since I’m working on UIS, but I’m super excited to be working on this one.  
> I am also slowly but surely inching through the next chapter of LJBD, it’s just a little more difficult than I thought, initially.  
> I’m really excited about this one since I’ve been writing it in between chapters for UIS.  
> I’m a slut for film noir aesthetic and ✨Paulkins✨, so I'm super excited about this!!!
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you would like!!! I really appreciate you guys taking the time to read this prologue!!!
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!
> 
> My Tumblr: @ShhImAvoidingSleep


	2. Decency and Integrity are Fancy Words but they Never Kept Anyone Fed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is given the story of a lifetime.  
> Featuring harassment by Ted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna try and include quotes from Noir Films or old songs to be the chapter titles for this fic. However, because I cannot remember where this quote came from, I will have to update this note later in order to get it right 😂
> 
> !!TRIGGER WARNING!!: Ted

October 25th, 1946

The Hatchetfield Gazette

When the sun rose over Hatchetfield the next morning, it was almost as if a switch had gone off. Though the news had not yet spread, it was recognizable in the eyes of those who were so set in their ways that something had changed. 

One of these people was Paul Matthews. 

As he parked his small car in front of his workplace, the large building which housed the Hatchetfield Gazette, he could tell that something was amiss. 

Perhaps it was slightly different in the ways people would talk to one another, or the ways more people seemed to bunch up on the street in deep conversation than usual. 

Regardless, Paul could tell that something was amiss. 

It was almost as if something had pushed the rhythm of his day out of line like he was walking the steps to a dance he didn’t know (not that Paul knew many dances, to begin with). His routine had been so set from the day he’s started working at the paper, that he’d never expected the smallest thing to go out of detail. Sure, he hit a few road bumps that only slightly threw his day off, but this...this was something new. 

He would have never expected murder. 

As he managed to make his way to his third-floor office, he was stopped by his coworker, Ted Spakoffski, who reeked of booze and aftershave. His olive-toned shirt was rolled up past his elbows and his maroon suspenders, which didn’t go with his overall outfit were a major eyesore. His neatly-trimmed mustache, however, looked messy, and Paul could have sworn that he saw the traces of bright pink lipstick that only Charlotte wore on the bristles of it. His hazel eyes darted around excitedly and he chewed on tobacco obnoxiously in a gesture that only told Paul that he knew something Paul didn’t. 

“Have a nice evening with Charlotte, Ted?” Paul asked tiredly, not really wanting the details of whatever philandering Ted and Charlotte had gotten up to the night before. 

Everyone knew that Charlotte’s husband was a bum. A major asshole who’d only married Charlotte for her money, and was _still_ making bank as a cop. Nobody liked Sam Wentworth. Still, the marital infidelity on both sides of the marriage were household topics of conversation (as it was commonly propagated by people like Linda Monroe), unless it applied to the Wentworths themselves. Sam didn’t know about Charlotte and Ted, and Charlotte didn’t know about Sam’s many lovers. Still, it seemed like the entire office knew that Ted and Charlotte were having an affair, in spite of their attempts at “privacy”, and Paul was frankly, sick of hearing about it. 

Ted grinned, “My evening was fine, Paul...but I think I know something that you don’t.” 

Paul sighed again, not in the mood for Ted’s antagonism, “What?”

“The hot barmaid from Beanies started working night shifts,” Ted said with a smug grin, “Maybe that’s the place you make your move.” 

“What move?” Paul asked, suddenly feeling nervous and fighting against the thick blush that was making its way onto his cheeks. Judging from Ted’s satisfied expression, Ted had accomplished his primary goal.

“Paul, c’mon,” Ted sneered, “We all know you hate music and dancing...so why do you bother going to a dance hall on your break…”

“Drinks are cheaper there…” Paul tried to manage, stammering out his rehearsed excuse, “Besides...they cater to all times of the day and they make damn good coffee before happy hour...you know…”

“Bullshit,” Ted spat, grinning,” I propose that it has something to do with that cute brown-eyed barmaid you find...how do I say this? Attractive.”

Paul blushed again, biting down on his tongue hard as Ted went on, not even bothering to hide his crude nature. 

“You know,” Ted smiled, “The one with the eyes...and the...you know...” 

Paul turned red as Ted made a curvy woman gesture with his hands, “Please stop…You do realize this is why people think you’re creepy, right?”

“Well, at least I’m getting some!” Ted exclaimed. 

“Well…”Paul stammered, “Some of us are interested in getting to know people before...you know…”

“But you have thought of it, though? Right?” Ted exclaimed, ignoring the remark, “You’ve fancied-”

“There you guys are!” Paul turned around with a sigh of relief as his best friend, Bill Woodward came to his rescue, “Davidson wants us all in his office.” 

“Alright, we’ll be there in a second, Woodward,” Ted groaned, trying to wave Bill off. 

“He means now, Ted,” Bill said quickly, straightening his orange tie on his beige button-up.

Ted groaned as Bill began to lead them to the elevator, so they could get to the editor, Mr. Davidson’s office. 

“What’s the big deal, man?” Ted groaned, sounding like a whiny teenager and making Bill and Paul share a tired look, “I finished my story on the beauty pageant...spoiler alert, Linda Monroe won, again.”

That was Ted’s job. He covered small scale stories that didn’t require much work and gave him an excuse to be out and about town. Usually Ted would cover things like livestock competition, or the fairgrounds, or even flower shows covered by local botany students. Most people would find it demeaning work, but Ted didn’t see any problem with it. He did as little work as possible and still managed to get paid often for it. 

Bill probably had the biggest job, he worked on the city beat, which meant he covered most of the big front-page stories. He was a talented writer (even if Paul had to remind him of some spelling errors) and had been very successful from the beginning. He’d even covered some of the toughest pieces of Hatchetfield society, be it the riots down on the fifth street, or the Speakeasy that had reopened after being condemned when they found it was the scene of a drug cartel. If Mr. Davidson had a major story, it was likely that Bill was gonna get it. 

Paul, however, worked the more critical side of things. He wrote stories relating to newly released media, such as novels, plays, or even films. It gave him an excuse to watch new films featuring Humphrey Bogart, or Lauren Bacall, and actually write his opinions on it without much judgment. Besides, people liked his reviews, and it gave him an excuse to talk about films he obsessed over, to an extent. It also gave him a great deal of free time while at work. 

As he stood in the elevator, trying to drown out the sound of Ted’s incessant yammering, he tapped his fists together quickly. He hoped no one was in trouble. Besides Ted, he rather liked his coworkers. He’d gotten used to them in the many years he worked for the paper, so it was likely that if anyone was gonna get fired, it would throw his whole day off. 

As the elevator came to a stop, Bill was the one to lead them out, walking with a purpose Paul had never seen the man walk with. 

“Bill, what’s wrong?” he asked, catching up to his friend as they came to the big glass doors of Mr. Davidson’s office. Bill never walked this fast unless it concerned his daughter, Alice. Clearly, something was bugging him.

Bill shook his head, “You’ll see...but be prepared,” he looked back to make sure Ted was still following them. He was, but he was very obviously dragging his loafers against the slick wood floor, “It’s not pretty.”

As he pulled open the doors, Paul was met by the scent of Mr. Davidson’s tobacco and the perfume worn by his wife, Carol, which he often spritzed the room with in order to retain the idea that his wife was with him. Charlotte was in the room already, seted primly and properly next to Melissa, Mr. Davidson’s secretary, who was watching the editor pace in front of the large crystalline windows of the Hatchetfield gazette. The way the sunlight streamed through some of the stained glass panes highlighted the copious amounts of dust that characterized Mr. Davidson’s office, always managing to put Paul on edge. 

Mr. Davidson, though usually a well-kept man in his blue pinstripe suits and fancy ties, looked like he’d been run amuck in a matter of minutes. His auburn hair lacked it’s usual clean shine and looked as though his hands had been running through it furiously. In his mouth, there was a thick cigar that plumes of smoke rose from in a fury that seemed to fog up the room. Paul tried to stifle a cough to prevent being made fun of by Ted. 

When Ted slammed the door shut, Mr. Davidson turned around his eyes wide as he took them in, “Great, we’re all here...now we can get started.”

He stood behind his desk bracing himself against the dark wood like he was prepared to throw up. For a moment he was silent, leaving the people in the room bewildered before he looked up with the eyes of a predator and spoke words that would change the course of Paul’s life without him even knowing it. 

“Andrew Kilgore was found dead near Starry Cove last night.” 

Charlotte gasped, her hands flying up to her mouth in shock. The other people in the room, however, looked at one another in shock. 

“Kilgore?!” Ted snorted, clearly lacking the shock and awe from the other people in the room, “Kilgore kicked the bucket? The immortal iron-fisted robot in charge of Coven Manufacturing?” 

Mr. Davidson nodded, “He was found dead by some teenagers last night, in full dress suit and everything...Police think it was a suicide, but there’s evidence that might suggest murder.” 

Ted snorted, “Doesn’t surprise me one bit,” he lit a cigarette from his pocket, “The man had many enemies. Anyone that rich does...or maybe he did do himself in…” he mused, “Maybe it was the misery that Mrs. Kilgore married him out of pity.”

“Will you stop it?!” Charlotte exclaimed suddenly, cutting Ted off, “A man has died!”

Everyone, including Ted looked down. Everyone knew that Andrew Kilgore, was cousins with Charlotte’s good-for-nothing husband, Sam. Despite Sam being a simple beat cop and Andy the heir to a large fortune, the families had remained close and friendly. 

“If it’s murder,” Davidson continued, eyeing all of them seriously, “I want it to be on the front page of the Hatchetfield Gazette. Woodward, you want it?” 

Bill looked up, his eyes wide. He glanced across the room as he looked like he was about to be sick. 

Ted snorted again, “He ain’t got the stomach for it. Remember the Linton Street Suicide?” 

Everyone muttered in agreement. That had been one of Bill’s more grisly stories, involving a murder-suicide. Bill had written about it and gotten sick several times. In addition to being the darkest topic Bill had ever written about, it was also the worst story of his that had been published in the gazette. No matter how good of a writer Bill was, Ted was right in saying that the man wasn’t the best at handling gore. There was no shame in it, of course, at least Bill owned up to it in ways that Ted couldn’t taunt him for. Another reason why Bill was so high in Paul’s regard as opposed to Ted. 

Bill shook his head, “No...but I heard there’s gonna be an Anarchist Rally on Laurel Street, so I’ll take that instead.”

Davidson nodded, “Alright, you take the rally...Charlotte?” 

“I’ve got the advice column,” Charlotte said lightly, “So many letters came in...and they need answering.”

“Right,” Davidson nodded before turning to Ted, “Ted-”

“I’ve got the honey fest this week,” Ted said, not looking up from the stain on his shirt that he was suddenly so interested in, “And the seasonal opening of Watcher World is this weekend, so I’m also covering that.”

Paul had to stifle a glare at Ted. The seasonal opening of Watcher World had been two months before, and was typically Ted’s excuse to get out of doing any assignment that might have required the smallest bit of work. Not that Davidson cared enough, or was attentive enough to pay attention to the fact that Ted used the excuse often...or was even knowledgeable that the small amusement park on the other side of the Witchwood existed. 

Davidson nodded, and Paul suddenly felt every eye turn to him. He sighed. 

“Paul,” Davidson began, “Last I checked, you already reviewed _My Darling Clementine_ and _So Dark the Night,_ right?” 

“Yes, sir,” Paul nodded miserably, knowing immediately where this was going. 

“And the Starlight Production of _Aida_ doesn’t come until December, correct?” He asked, eyeing him intently, “And Eugene O’Neill’s _The Iceman Cometh_ doesn’t come to the Starlight for another month?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“And there are no new novel releases worth covering?” 

“Well...sir, I think there are always novels worth covering,” Paul stammered before being cut off.

“Alright Matthews, this one’s yours,” Davidson spoke quickly, looking down, “I expect updated stories that capture the public’s attention. This might be the biggest story since that meteor nearly hit us.”

Davidson took a long drag from the cigar, puffing pungent smoke into the air before looking up at everyone impatiently, “What are you standing around for? Go get started!! Get outta here!”

Paul’s travel to his desk seemed blurry. His head was spinning.

“Okay…” he murmured to himself, tapping his clenched fists together in a rhythm nobody but him could understand, “Okay...okay...okay…”

He had this case?

He was a critic, not an investigative reporter!

And yet, Davidson was willing to _give_ him the story because nobody else wanted it? 

“Okay...okay…okay...okay…”

Perhaps it was the fact that anything involving murder was hardly something _anyone_ in Hatchetfield liked to get their hands into. Especially when it involved tycoons like Kilgore.

Shouldn't people other than him get this story? People who actually wanted it? 

It was true, he, Bill, Charlotte, and admittedly, Ted, were the only capable writers the Gazette had. But shouldn't anybody want this story more than he? If this was as big a story as Davidson claimed, then any writer would kill for a story like it. Then again, when one had a story like this, they had to write it good. 

Maybe it was the fact that nobody liked digging into anything related to the Kilgore company. From what he knew, people thought that Coven Manufacturing was haunted after Mr. Kilgore's wife had gone missing. Maybe it was because the name Kilgore was just one of the names nobody wanted to mess with in general.

“Hey,” Bill walked up to his desk, “Big story, huh?”

“Yeah,” Paul muttered as he started aimlessly at his blue typewriter, “I still don't know why you couldn't have taken it. You would write it better than I ever could.”

“Don't you say that,” Bill chuckled, “If anyone could handle this with an acute sense of detail and a critical eye, it’s you. Besides, you won't puke at the first sign of blood.”

“Hey, that's not your fault!” Paul protested, “Anyway, I just hope I can do it justice…”

“You will,” Bill smiled, “Besides, a big story like this could attract the eye of a certain woman…”

Paul groaned, “Not you too!”

“Do you even know her name yet?” Bill inquired, raising an eyebrow, “How long have you been visiting Beanies?”

The answer was five months. 

He’d been dragged to the dancehall/coffeehouse/bar by Ted because he’d wanted to flirt with one of the attendants there. He didn't expect to like it, and he didn't. It was more of a person who'd drawn him back. 

She'd been attending the bar when he'd gotten there, apparently arguing with a customer who’d been less than kind. When he ordered something from her, he'd been so wrapped up in her bourbon-warm eyes that he’d stammered over every single word. She was hard to forget, with her dark eyes and gorgeous brown hair. Her razor-sharp wit and biting personality that was so different from the general decorum of the shitty dancehall. He’d been smitten with her before he'd even realized it just three months before.

Every time he saw her, he felt as though his insides were both floating and falling. Like his very soul was created into thousands of butterflies that fluttered every time he was within a few yards of her. 

It was because of this that he found himself going back to Beanies frequently, even if the music was garish and the spontaneous dance made him uncomfortable, it was worth it to hear her yell at an unseemly creep. Yet, he never had the guts to ask for her name. 

As he processed the new story, the memory of her eyes and impish smile entered his memory, making him realize quickly just what it was he needed to calm down and get his head in the game. If he was gonna properly write this, then he needed to clear his head.

“I'm gonna go get a drink,” He told Bill, briskly standing, in part to avoid the rest of the conversation, “I’ll be right back.”

With that, he walked off, headed for the elevator, beginning the three-block trek to Beanies.

A tycoon murder...surely, it wouldn't last long? They'd have it solved in no time, right?

Then he could get back to critiquing plays and movies.

He could get back to the routine he’d grown so comfortable with.

Little did he know, that this case, in particular, would change the course of his life forever.

Little did he know...he’d been handed the story of a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then, Pauls on a journey, isn't he?  
> Also, Ted and Bill are merely trying to compete subtly for the role of ’best wingman’.
> 
> Coming up next: Emma is done with life. Featuring Paul with bad flirting.
> 
> The chapters for this look like they're. gonna be a lot shorter than the ones from my other fics, so I hope that's okay!!
> 
> I really hope you're enjoying this!!
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you would like!!! I appreciate you guys all the same!!!
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!  
> PLEASE BE SAFE THIS CHRISTMAS AND WEAR A MASK!!!  
> Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, and if you celebrate something else, I hope your holiday is fantastic!!!
> 
> My Tumblr: @ShhImAvoidingSleep


	3. When Your Head Says One Thing and Your Life Says Another, The Head Usually Loses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma hates her life and dealing with creeps...and somehow in the middle of it all, makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!TRIGGER WARNING!!: creeps in the workplace

October 25th, 1946

Beanies

The smell of tobacco and cheap perfume, in addition to the strange combined scent of coffee and varying kinds of alcohol were pungent, and did nothing to soothe the painful headache that was stabbing into the back of Emma Perkins’ skull. In addition to the war of scents, the cacophonous sound of her coworker, Zoey Mullins, attempting to sound like Rita Hayworth was only fueling her annoyance and making her drum out a rhythm with her fingers on the hardwood surface of the bar. 

She wasn’t sure why she still worked here, at the combined dance hall and coffeehouse...and bar, for that matter. Nora insisted they call it by all of those names when really it should have just been called a lounge. The pay wasn’t all that great and the company even worse. The collection of booze hounds and day drinkers being the majority of their company in the early mornings since it was well known that their coffee was the stuff of nightmares and resembled tar more than it did an actual caffeinated beverage. Regardless, the abundance of sounds, sights, and smells didn’t beat the fact that it was the only job she’d held for longer than three months, and she was the only person who actually did any work, so therefore Nora, her boss, couldn’t afford to fire her. 

She straightened her blouse and light green skirt, which constituted her uniform for the long hours she would work before she’d retreat to different lecture halls as a means of learning something, or perhaps returning to her cold and loud tenement building she could barely afford to pay rent for. It was reasons like this that kept her at Beanies. 

It most certainly wasn’t the music, like Zoey claimed she loved so much, or the customers, which Nora worshipped greatly. No, it was the inevitable fear of failure which kept Emma there. Worried that she’d end up on the streets, a penniless failure like her family always said she’d be. 

Beanies would have resembled some of the fancier and nicer clubs had it not been for the excess purveyed in its decor. 

The walls looked like they resembled something you’d find in a hotel, with the intricate designs carved into the wood, which made the room look sultry and darker. The floors were hardwood, which didn’t match the walls, and were in desperate need of some thorough cleaning with as much booze and coffee she’d seen spilt into the floorboards. The ceiling had several, small-scale chandeliers, that looked like they didn’t quite match the overall ambiance of the place, which cast a golden honey glow down on the small round tables and creaky stools which characterized the place. There was a small stage at the foot of the room, which was surrounded by deep red drapery and looked like it was in need of some major dusting. Usually the stage was occupied by Zoey, who was always desperate to attract the attention of anybody, or even talent agencies. It was on those days that Emma would plug her ears. Not because Zoey had a bad voice, but because it was something she didn't need to hear so early.

With as few people that came in and out day by day, it was a miracle that such a place was able to stay afloat. Still, Emma was grateful to have some source of income. It was better than nothing, she’d remind herself. It was better to have some money coming in than none at all. 

She hated the fact that she was back in Hatchetfield. 

She’d been doing just fine in Europe as a war correspondent, and she’d wanted to stay there, travelling around and seeing all of the bits and pieces of the world she’d be told about in school. She wasn’t one of those bright-eyed and bushy-tailed travellers, though. No. The war had made her see the ways of men, and she knew how to fend off any unseemly characters, even if now, the only seedy people she came into contact with were people who ordered extremely complicated cocktails at 10:56 in the morning. 

In spite of all she wanted in life, a car crash had landed her nearly penniless and friendless in the dump she’d wanted nothing more than to escape. A place where she’d be tied down. A place where it was her versus the world.

A loud cough snapped her out of her reverie and she straightened, looking him in the eye, “Hello, welcome to Beanies, what can I get for ya?” 

The man, who was staring down at a small cigarette case in his hands didn’t meet her eyes, stirring a sort of annoyance in her. Was it normal for her to get this annoyed, this early? Yes. Yes it was. 

“Yeah,” the man said, lighting his cigarette as he talked, his voice sounding pompous and self-important, “Can I get a Bellamy Scotch sour, add a little bit of cinnamon into it with extra ginger and extra scotch?” 

_You sure you just don’t want straight scotch?_ She thought to herself, refraining from asking the question as she knew it wouldn’t win her any regard with these customers...or her boss. Neither of their opinions of her mattered much to Emma, but the maintenance of her job did, so she’d have to play nice.

“Sure,” she spoke quickly and set to making the drink as quickly as she could so he could take his spot and “enjoy” Zoeys singing, if it were at all possible. 

As she began to make the drink, he leaned over the counter, studying her in a way that sent unpleasant shivers up and down her spine. Regrettably, it was a familiar feeling. She just hoped she would make his drink quickly, maybe smuggle some spit into it and let him get wrapped up in Zoey instead, or just leave the establishment anyway. 

“You know,” he began, making her try very hard to hide her frown, “You’re a very lovely gal.”

She hummed slightly, not wanting to aggravate him, but give him the idea that she most certainly _was not_ interested. She bit the inside of her cheek hard, trying very hard not to snap back at him. Nobody asked this man what he thought of her, so why did he bother attempting to pay that half-complement? 

She knew why. That was obvious. But she wouldn’t buy into his false sincerity. 

“You’d be much prettier if you smiled, though…” he said nonchalantly, and Emma was acutely aware of his eyes on her. She bit down hard on her lip, “Gentlemen like that more.”

_Oh for the love of…_

Part of her wanted to snap back at him that she didn’t give a rats ass about what men liked, or maybe make a comment on his use of the word ‘gentlemen’ when really this man was a scurvy lowlife whose mother was the only woman capable to even finding any endearing traits in him, but she knew it would potentially get her fired, and that was not a discussion she wanted to be having with Nora today. As long as this man kept his goddamned mouth shut while she continued to fix his drink, Emma wouldn’t be in danger of nearly committing a murder or getting fired. 

She was about halfway through making his drink when she heard him again.

“Hey…”

“Yeah?” She turned around to see him pointing rather obnoxiously at the small jar on the counter, containing a few loose coins and a crumpled-up dollar bill.

_Shit._

“I just tipped you,” he said, self-importantly.

“Well…” she began quietly, hoping he perhaps had missed the sign pasted to the jar, “Thank you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to sing?” He spoke, making Emma’s heart and faith in humanity (what was left of it, at least) sink, “It says ‘tip for a song’.”

“Well...um…” she desperately searched the room for an excuse, not even bothering to keep her tone polite. She wouldn’t sing. Especially not for the satisfaction of some creep, “We already have live music.” 

She tossed her head over her shoulder towards Zoey, who was just finishing her pitchy rendition of _The Gypsy,_ “We also have a jukebox you can use…”

“But, _doll_ ,” he clicked his tongue and she clenched her fists to keep herself from slapping him, “I tipped ya...I wanna hear _you_ sing.”

Okay. She was done being nice. 

“Well did you tip to be nice or did you tip to be a pain in the neck?” her voice was loud and snappy, taking the man aback in a way that she had to resist smirking. 

“Fine then, I guess I’ll take it back,” He snapped, drawing back from her, “There’s better booze to be had at _better_ clubs anyhow…”

“Great,” Emma nodded, not dropping her frown, “I’ll tell them you’re comin’...give them a warning ahead of time.”

With that, the man huffed petulantly and walked off, taking his crumpled-up dollar bill with him. 

God, she loved it when she could scare off creeps like-

“Emma, what’s going on out here?” 

Damn. 

She turned and saw her frowning boss, Nora Marston standing in front of her. Her trademark frown and worry lines making Emma realize just how deep she was in. 

“Some guy was bein’ a creep and-” Emma tried to explain before being cut off by a younger man at another table. 

“She wouldn’t sing for him when he tipped!” 

_Fuckin’ snitch._

Emma cast a glare at the man and watched as he shrank away, clearly getting the message to mind his own business, but it was too late. 

“Christ, Emma,” Nora groaned, looking pissed off beyond all imagination, “I already warned you twice… and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how close I am to-”

Emma looked down and nodded as her speech faded into nothingness. She had heard this spiel many times before. If she passed the line again, she would likely get fired. Instead of sticking up for herself, however, as she had several times before, she simply nodded along in the wake of Nora’s scolding. 

“-And if you want to have a job here,” Nora was yelling, her face red, “You’ll sing when you’re tipped. Clear?” 

Emma swallowed her pride and biting retorts, “Crystal.”

“Good.” Nora nodded in her own self-important way, “Now move it! You’ve got a line!” 

Emma turned as Nora walked off and saw that her ‘line’ was actually a single person. A man she recognized, in fact. 

He was one of the regulars at Beanies, though she never really understood why. He never seemed to enjoy the music or the drinks while he was there, and yet, he kept coming and offering no complaint. 

He was definitely one of her least problematic customers, and gave her the least complicated orders when he came. He also seemed to have some sort of indignance when she’d be confronted by creeps, even if he was a stuttering mess when he ordered from her. 

In addition, he wasn’t bad looking. With his neatly combed, light brown hair, and soft blue eyes that seemed so full of a kind of warmth she couldn’t quite place, he was obviously a man of gentle nature and routine. He often wore drab and plain suits, which, at first, had made her think he was a boring everyman. Probably with a wife and kids and a white picket fence. The kind of man Jane would bring home to please their parents, but as time went on, she could see a sort of...spirit and intellect in him. He wasn’t built or bulky like most of the customers, and he didn’t ever stain the air of the tacky dance hall with cheap cigar smoke. Rather, he was tall, and skinny, easily a foot taller than her. Regardless of how he looked, she was certain she’d seen him more than once at her bar.

“Hello,” she said, trying to manage the best customer service smile she could, almost hoping that her red lipstick hadn’t stained her teeth, “What can I get for ya?” 

“Oh-Um,” his eyes widened, “Yeah...I’ve just got an easy one for you...just a simple black coffee…”

“Nothing in it?” she said quickly, trying not to get lost in his eyes...damn, was it a trick of the light or were they really _that_ blue? “No cream? No sugar?”

“Nope,” he shook his head, “Just coffee, please.” 

As she turned to fix his coffee, she caught him out of the corner of her eye, dropping a few bucks into the jar. 

“Jesus, really?” she sighed, looking up at him as he looked confused...like he had no idea what he’d done to cause offense. 

She sighed, determined to make this the worst singing job she’d ever done. Maybe if she could convince Nora that she was a bad singer...maybe she wouldn’t have to do the tip jar thing...too bad that during her job interview, Nora had asked her if she could sing, and being as desperate for a job as Emma was, she’d said yes and demonstrated as much.

“ _You made me lo-”_

His eyes widened, “Oh no! You don’t need to sing...I don’t need you to sing…” she sighed in relief as he stammered over his words, “I just tipped because...people should...tip, I mean...more often…”

She smiled, suddenly relieved that she’d encountered a customer who wasn’t a complete and total jerk, “Well...thank you…”

She bit back the rise of bitterness at the previous customer and Nora, before turning back to him. He looked like a good listener.

“I mean…” she turned to him, leaning in as if she had a secret to tell him. He leaned in as well, listening intently, “If I have to sing for it, it’s not really a tip, right? I mean...that jukebox over there is makin’ more for songs than I am when it really comes down to it!”

He nodded in understanding, chuckling at the jukebox remark. 

“God,” she went on in her rant, taking the opportunity to vent to _someone,_ especially someone who looked like they were genuinely listening, “I’m just so sick of Nora and _Zoey..._ who is technically my superior, despite doing _next to nothing_ and almost ten years younger than me...ugh.”

He nodded again, listening intently as she went on, “She keeps hiring some of her little freelance musician friends without any sense of pitch at all...and they will not _shut up_ about this production of _The Bells of Saint Mary’s_ that they did a few years back.”

“The one at the Starlight in 44’ ?” he asked, looking interested as she nodded, “I think I had to see that...I didn’t like it.”

“Yeah!” she exclaimed, so glad that someone else shared her opinions, “It was awful wasn’t it”

“The lead actor was trying too hard to be Bing Crosby!” He said, nodding along in a way that made Emma laugh. 

“Yeah, and Zoey didn’t get the idea that she’s not Ingrid Bergman in _Casablanca,_ ” Emma snorted, making sure that the woman in question wasn’t in earshot, “ _Bells of St. Mary’s_ is very different.” 

He laughed, a sound that made Emma smile. Though he was very obviously a nervous wreck, there was something about his laughter that made him seem more at ease. She didn’t know his name, but she knew she liked his eyes, his smile, and his laugh...so far. She could add more to the list later. 

“Honestly, I don’t know why people demand that you guys sing,” he said, before his eyes widened, “N-Not that you have a bad voice..I’m sure you have a- I mean...I’m sure your voice is lovely! I just mean...I-um…”

She laughed at how easily flustered he’d become, “No...I get it. Why would anyone want us to sing, when the perfectly good jukebox is over there?” 

He nodded, looking relieved that she’d finished the sentence for him. She smiled again, “Well...let me tell you, I’d rather be a jukebox than...whatever it is I am...they make more than me as far as tips being split goes...after the split, I ain’t even making a quarter...which is the cost for a song in the jukebox!” 

He laughed as she went on, “Besides, a jukebox ain’t gotta mix drinks and put up with creeps!” she recanted her statement, “Not that you’re a creep...I mean...you don’t _seem_ like one…”

His face flushed, “I-I should hope not…”

She smiled, “I’m just messing with you...you don’t strike me as that type after all...even though, there is the question of why someone like you would frequent a place like _this_ all the time…” he flushed at the remark as she passed him his drink. She leaned up against the counter again, studying his wide blue eyes, “I mean, I have seen you here before...all the time, right?” 

He nodded, “Yeah…”

“And you always get black coffee,” she said, remembering all the previous occasions she’d seen him in the hall, “Right?” 

He nodded again and she smiled. 

“But you don’t like the music or the dancing from what I’ve seen? I mean...you didn’t like _The Bells of Saint Mary’s_.” 

He nodded, “Yeah...singing and dancing just...makes me really uncomfortable…”

She smiled, studying his face. His little nervous grin and flushed face was so...endearing in a sense. She’d seen him come in and watched as his face morphed in disgust when people would begin a foxtrot or a swing on the dancefloor as whatever musicians they’d hired for the evening played on. It all made sense when she thought about it, except for the fact that he’d come in several times. 

“And you always tip…” she reached her hand into the jar to pull out the bills that he’d dropped in. Holy mother of God!, “Five bucks…”

She glanced from side to side, “Did you mean this just for…”

“Yeah,” he said quickly nodding along as his eyes widened, “That’s for you...you don’t need to split it with anyone.”

She studied him with a soft smile as she pocketed the bills, “Well...that’s very sweet…but it still doesn’t answer my question why someone who’s no lover of Astaire or Kelly would find themselves in the smorgasbord of song and dance day by day?”

He looked down, a small blush which Emma found adorable painting his cheeks, “Well...you know…”

He trailed off for a moment before meeting her eyes, a smile she couldn’t quite recognize covering his face, “Some things are worth it.” 

Emma chuckled slightly, as she fought against a small blush of her own “A good tipper _and_ a charmer, huh? Does he have a name?”

He smiled slightly, “Paul...Paul Matthews…” he stammered before sighing and slowing down, “My name is...Paul.”

 _Paul._ Huh. 

That suited him. 

“Hi, Paul,” she smiled, “I’m Emma.”

He held out her hand and he gingerly took it, looking shocked as she shook his hand. 

She leaned forward, there were no other customers in the room, so she could likely make conversation with someone she actually found to be a decent fella.

“So, Paul Matthews,” she began, trying out the name on her tongue, “What do you do?” 

“Hmm?” He looked slightly bewildered that she would be asking him about his line of work, whatever that may be, “What do I- Oh! Oh...yeah, I am...I’m a columnist for the Hatchetfield Gazette.”

Somehow that suited him even more than what she would have thought he did. She would have taken him for an accountant or some job that suited a man that looked as boring as he did...she never wasted time with people who looked boring...but somehow, here she was. Having a conversation with a _very_ attractive reporter, who could have easily been taken for the most _normal_ man alive. 

“A reporter for the gazette, huh?” she smiled nodding along, “What do you write?” 

He sat down at one of the stools across the bar and took a sip of his coffee, which was likely still piping hot, “Usually, I review plays and movies…”

“Oh” she nodded, “So...you like film?” 

He smiled and nodded, “Very much...my favorite’s the _Maltese Falcon_.”

“Huh,” she smiled, “I wouldn’t have taken you for a Bogart fan...I personally love _To Have and Have Not…”_

“That’s another good one!” he smiled wide, looking very excited by the notion, “ _The Big Sleep_ was pretty good too, I’ll admit…”

“That’s newer, isn’t it?” she asked, “I didn’t get to see it, but I’ve heard good things about it.”

“It was very good,” Paul nodded, smiling. 

“So,” she leaned forward again, “What are you reviewing next?”

He looked sheepish for a moment, “Actually...I have a new assignment…” he sounded like he was _ashamed_ of the fact, “I’m covering something...different.”

Her interest was piqued, “Different, how?” 

“Well…” he sighed, taking a long drink from his coffee, “It’s a...a _possible_ murder.”

She leaned forward again, “Not what happened to Andy Kilgore?” 

He looked stunned, “How-How’d you know…”

She laughed, “If you don’t know about the Kilgore death, then I’d say you lived under a rock.” 

He chuckled, “Well, it was news to me this morning when I walked into work...nobody else wanted to take it, so I’m stuck with it.”

She smiled, “Still, a big story like this could be good for you...right? I mean...it’s Andrew Kilgore...everyone thought the man was immortal.”

This was true. Everyone who was anybody knew that Andrew Kilgore was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Hatchetfield. When Lex and Hannah, her neighbors had come home late, her entire building had been abuzz with the news. At first, she hadn’t believed it...but now that she was hearing it from Paul, she knew it had to have some merit. 

“So…” she began, looking himm in the eye, “Do you think it was a murder?” 

“I…” he stammered, “I don’t know...I haven’t even got a source yet...but hopefully it’s something simple...I mean, I’m way out of my comfort zone here.”

“I suppose,” she nodded, glancing around the room before her eyes fell on the piano and an idea was sparked in her mind, “If you need a source, I think I might have one for you!” 

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow, “Really?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “I’ve got a friend who works for the police as a pathologist...he knows everyone and everything there is to know down at the precinct...name’s Henry Hidgens…”

“Hidgens?” Paul asked, as if the name was familiar, “I think I might have heard of him…” 

She nodded, “Yeah, but he’s also a concert pianist when he’s not working with stiffs. He comes here every evening at around five o’clock to play…” she snorted, “Honestly, he’s the only decent live music we’ve got around here.”

Paul nodded, “And you think he could give me some information about the Kilgore case?” 

She nodded, “Positive...I wouldn’t be surprised if the man was either insane or brilliant. If you stop by here this afternoon after five, I could-”

“Emma!” Nora’s sharp voice interrupted her, making her roll her eyes, “What are you doing? Get off your ass and wipe these tables.” 

She sighed and met Paul’s eyes, making sure he knew how annoyed she was. 

“I’d better go,” he whispered, “But I’ll...be sure to be back tonight, if that’s fine with you? I’d like to meet this Hidgens guy...it would be a great help.”

She smiled as she picked up a rag from the counter, “That would be great,” she paused and turned to him as he stood, preparing to leave, “But, just a warning, Paul, he can be a little bit...intense…”

Paul nodded as if he didn’t quite process the words, “I’ll take that under advisement.”

She smiled at him, and he grinned back as he pulled his brown coat back on and started moving towards the door. 

“It was nice to meet you, Emma!” he called as he walked out the door. 

She waited for the door to close before she smiled to herself. 

She didn’t know why she was suddenly so taken with this new guy. Normally, _any_ patron of Beanies had never given her the time of day or treated her like a basic human being. No one had ever bothered to listen to her or give credence to her grievances regarding her job.

She smiled to herself as she realized that she’d see him again. 

She didn’t know what she thought of him, but she hoped that she would get a new friend in the mess and unfriendliness that Hatchetfield had thrown at her. 

She whispered to herself softly as she began to wipe down the table.

“It was nice to meet you too, Paul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Emma do be smitten...she just doesn't know it yet.  
> It's a miracle she hasn't realized that Paul is a simp.  
> I just love them so much!!!
> 
> Please leave comments or kudos if you would like!! I really appreciate you guys taking the time to read my work!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!!
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL WHO CELEBRATE IT!!
> 
> My Tumblr:@ShhImAvoidingSleep


	4. The Cheaper the Crook the Gaudier the Patter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul meets Emma and her friend to hopefully find more information on the Kilgore case.
> 
> Featuring Hidgens the dramatic concert pianist, and some pining from Paul and Emma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has a lot going on in it, so I really hope it’s not confusing!!
> 
> !!TRIGGER WARNING!!: Major Secondary Character death, minor emetophobia, forensic terms, discussion of autopsy

October 25th, 1946

The Hatchetfield Gazette

Paul sighed as he slid his first version of his story on the Kilgore death into Mr. Davidson’s mail slot, making the deadline for the evening. 

When he’d asked Davidson what his first report on the story should be like, he was told to keep it short and simple, keeping people wanting more, which gave Paul a sort of heart-sinking defeat. If he was kept on the Kilgore case for long, especially if evidence of foul play was found, he’d be kept on the case longer than he wanted.

At least Davison seemed to like it, which was better than a great deal of the reviews Paul put out there. It would be on the front page tomorrow, as far as he knew, which meant the public would see it on the face of the Hatchetfield Gazette and keep them reading. Everyone loved a good murder, as long as they weren’t in the crossfires for it. 

At least he had an excuse to see Emma again. 

_Emma._

A memory of her teasing brown eyes entered his vision and he flushed. He couldn’t believe he’d only _just_ learned her name. It was so simple, and yet it suited her so well. The elegance and grace sha had, yet a blatant bluntness about her which made her seem more raw than poised. She seemed genuine, so far from the fake decorum of most people he encountered, which only endeared her bluntness to him. 

He couldn’t get her lovely smile out of his head as he thought longer about her, trying so hard to focus on finishing up his paperwork in order to get to Beanies that evening to meet the pathologist guy. 

“Hey, Paul,” he was snapped out of his reverie as Bill popped up across his desk, making him look up, “Heading out?” 

“Yeah...just got the piece for tomorrow’s paper done, and I’m meeting with a source tonight,” Paul said tiredly. 

“A source?” Bill quirked an eyebrow, “What kind of source? Police?” 

“Nah,” Paul shook his head, “If I want a quote from the police, I’ll go through Charlotte…”

“Oh,” Bill nodded, “Then what kind of source?” 

“He’s a coroner, of sorts,” Paul explained, gathering his papers, “He’s a friend of Emma’s and knows everyone at the station. She said if there’s anything that knows about this case, then it’s him.”

“Emma?” Bill teasingly raised an eyebrow and a smirk crossed his face, “So...you finally learned the woman from Beanie’s name, huh?” 

Paul fought back against the blush that crossed his face, “N-Well...how did you-”

“You blushed when you said the name,” Bill explained bluntly, “See? You’re already getting to know her…” 

“Forget it!” came the annoying voice of Ted, “The man would never have the guts to ask her out, the man’s just determined to be an adult virgin for life.” 

Paul looked up to see the man in question walking out of the building, his eyes wide. Normally, Paul wouldn’t have paid much mind to Ted, but for a moment...it looked like the man had seen a ghost. 

“Hey, Ted,” Bill greeted in a friendly manner, “Headed out?” 

“Yeah...I’ve just got…” Ted nodded quickly, his eyes still wide, “Things I need to-wait...why the hell do you care?” 

“He’s just asking, Ted,” Paul mumbled, “It’s called being friendly. You should try it some time.”

“Screw you, Matthews,” Ted muttered, before pressing the elevator button and disappearing too quickly inside. 

“What’s his deal?” Paul asked, “He doesn’t look himself…”

Bill shrugged, “Who knows? With him it’s always something...” his teasing grin was back, “I want to hear more about this Emma...”

“She’s just helping me out with the story,” Paul muttered, hoping his blush was well-hidden and making sure that everything in his briefcase was in order before snapping it shut, “Besides, it’s definitely helpful that this guy Hidgens plays piano at Beanies a whole lot..”

“Hidgens? Henry Hidgens?” Bill raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Paul nodded, “You know him?” 

“You mean the whackjob who tried to submit an editorial on the end of the world?” Bill asked, “The guy who thought that meteor was gonna overtake the town with a...a musical parasite?”

Paul vaguely recalled receiving an editorial paper from a man that Bill had been given to review, it had promptly been stolen by Ted and he’d made fun of it for the majority of the next hour. 

“Maybe…” Paul shrugged, “But Emma says he knows all of the ins and outs of the police station, as well as the coroner’s office...if there’s anybody who’d know about the Kilgore case, it’s him.”

“Hmm…” Bill mused, “Well...anyway...at the very least you got to talk to...Emma, was it?” 

“Yeah,” Paul smiled. 

“And?” Bill asked, raising an eyebrow with the knowing smile on his face. 

“And...what?” Paul asked, already seeing where the conversation was going. 

“And…” Bill made a gesture with his hands, “Did anything happen?” 

“Besides my learning her name and she giving me a tip?” Paul asked, trying very hard to ignore the blush that was working its way onto her face, “No…”

He hoped with all of his might that his elation at having held a conversation with her. 

Bill looked partially disappointed, “Well...this was the first conversation you’ve held with her...just don’t blow it, man.” 

“I’ll try not to,” Paul whispered as the image of her wonderful smile appeared in his mind again, making him blush, “She’s really something…”

“Well,” Bill shrugged, “I’m off, I’ve got Alice for the night, hopefully she doesn’t decide to spend the evening with her delinquent friends again.” 

“She’s a kid, Bill,” Paul reasoned, not really wanting to provide him with parenting advice when he really had none to offer him, “She’s gonna have friends you’re not gonna approve of.”

“I guess not,” Bill sighed, “At least I have her for a while, as Polly’s off in France with Alan again…”

Paul groaned, “She’s still with him?” 

“Yes,” Bill sighed, “But the more time she spends with him, the more time I get with Alice, so it’s fine by me!”

“Huh,” Paul sighed, “Well, you take care this evening!” 

“You too,” Bill nodded as he put his hat on and pulled his light brown coat on, “And good luck with the source… and with _Emma.”_

Paul groaned at his teasing tone, “Get outta here, man.”

With that, Bill was gone and Paul was left alone in the makeshift offices. Just him and the typewriters, and the scent of ink and paper from a day of hard work finished. 

He sighed as he buttoned up his dark brown coat. 

The day had been long, and it had taken a great amount of focus for Paul to finish his preliminary story, trying so hard not to worry too much about his meeting with Emma and the new man Hidgens. It wasn’t so much the man he was worried about, more that he would give Emma the wrong impression. He’d been frequenting Beanies for so long, he only hoped that he didn’t appear creepy to Emma, or that he’d been acting like one of those men who thought if they watched a woman long enough they would fancy them without even realizing. 

He’d wanted to do things right and respect Emma’s boundaries, which he figured was why it had taken so long for him to ask her for her name, although, in the end it was Emma who’d given him her name. 

He’d replayed their conversation from earlier in his head over and over again, worrying that perhaps he was getting his hopes up. 

_She’s just helping you with the story,_ he reminded himself, _She’s a friend...and that’s all._

To be honest, he was more than glad to have made her acquaintance. While he wouldn’t deny that she was attractive (as Ted had liked to wave in his face just for the sake of seeing him blush), he’d been so taken with her wit, her sharpness, the way she wouldn’t take any nonsense from less-than-kind customers that had drawn him in. The conversation they’d had earlier had done nothing but make him fancy her all the more. She was biting, sharp, witty, funny, and honestly the best company besides Bill that he’d had in the longest time. 

_The story,_ he reminded himself, _She’s just helping you out. Stop getting distracted._

He sighed and internally berated himself for allowing himself to get hopeful. He’d had one singular conversation with her and somehow managed not to deter her in any way. 

Still, her name remained with him. 

Emma…

God, it was such a lovely name...and it suited her so well. 

_No. Dammit, man. Get yourself together._

With a defeated sigh, he pulled his coat on, merely happy enough that he was headed back to Beanies to meet a friend, and hopefully work harder on the story he’d been given with a helpful source. 

\--

  
Emma impatiently tapped her hands on the bar again, growing impatient. Since the rent in her building was raised, she suddenly found herself working overtime. Much to her chagrin, Beanies was much more crowded, and loud, and overwhelming at night than it was in the morning, as people fancied themselves nighthawks in the evening (an identity that didn’t _just_ pertain to the alumnus of Hatchetfield High), somehow giving them free reign to do whatever they wanted and ignore the wellbeing of the working class. 

After the fifteenth dissatisfied customer, complaining about the quality of their drink, Emma regretted her decision to work at Beanies for the fifth time today and did her best to get lost in the music, which for once, was bearable. 

It wasn’t until the doors opened and a familiar face appeared in the bar that her day was made better instantly. 

_Paul._

It had only been a few hours since she saw him last, but as soon as he entered the bar, she allowed some of the annoyance to melt away. He just had a much more _likeable_ face in comparison to all of the drunkards and dipsomaniacs that plagued her job and made her life a living hell. 

Of course, he was here because he needed to see Hidgens, but still, it was nice to see a friendly face. 

She watched as the man put up his coat and hat at the door. Smiling as he meekly looked over until he saw her, waving awkwardly. She watched as he sauntered up to the bar, that nervous dorky grin that she found endearing stretched across his face. 

It was then that he was intercepted by one of the many annoying customers from earlier, a greasy man with a mustache who’d tried to talk her into going home with him (which, she’d rather be caught dead than doing). After refraining from insulting the state of his mustache, she’d served him his drink (and managed to subtly add spit to it) and watched him get drunk off his ass, much to her own amusement. However, seeing as how Paul seemingly recognized the greasy mustache man, he didn’t look as amused with the man’s antics. 

“Heya, Paul,” the loud annoying man announced, making Emma notice an annoyed expression on Paul’s face, “Whatcha doin’ around here for?” 

“I’m-uh,” Paul stammered, his face blank, almost as if he were completely familiar with this occurrence, “I’m meeting with a source.” 

“A source,” the man slurred, “Wowie...already found one?”

“I mean, we’re reporters,” Paul deadpanned, “That’s what we do…”

_Ah, so they were coworkers then._

She suddenly found herself pitying Paul for having to work for the flirtatious drunkard, who almost instantly after her rejection became infatuated with Zoey (who, thankfully had retired from singing for the night). 

“Yeah, yeah,” the drunken man slurred, “But we’re both off the clock you see…”

“Yes,” Paul nodded, “But I didn’t get to-”

“Save it,” the man chortled, “I know why you’re really here…”

“What do you mean, Ted,” Paul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. 

“You know... _the latte hattay!”_ the man- Ted- all but shouted amidst the already chaotic noises of the bar. 

Before she could listen to any more, Paul blushed an extremely dark shade of red and obnoxiously shushed him, turning his face in her direction, almost to see if she was listening. She quickly pretended to be distracted with something, wiping down the counter perhaps, or just studying the woodgrain...yep, that had to be convincing. 

“Will you pipe down?” she heard Paul hiss to Ted, his voice sounding somewhat frantic, “I’m technically still working, so would you please just be a pal and leave me alone?”

“Yep, aye-aye, _Mon Capitan,_ ” The man loudly proclaimed, swinging his arms around in a way that made Paul duck to avoid getting slapped, “You can count on me…” 

Emma tried to stifle a giggle at the embarrassment on Paul’s face as he slinked away from Ted, who was still shouting affirmations at the top of his lungs. As Paul approached the bar, he met her eyes and flushed again. She leaned against the wood. 

“Friend of yours?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow. 

Paul groaned, “Coworker and major pain in the neck...sometimes he means well, but for the most part...no.”  
He turned his face back to where Ted was leaning up against the wall, trying to smooth-talk a photograph of Nora’s grandmother that she insisted on keeping on the wall.

Paul sighed and shook his head, “How many has he had?”

“Amazingly, two,” she laughed, “For a man who boasts about being able to hold his liquor like a champ, he’s the weakest lightweight I’ve ever seen.”

“If you ever see me drink, that would prove you wrong,” Paul chuckled nervously. 

She raised an eyebrow, “I’d be willing to put that to the test…”

He suddenly flushed and his eyes wide, “Oh no! No! I didn’t mean it like that- I mean, ugh...I’m technically working so I shouldn’t...I mean-”

“Hey, man,” she laughed, “It’s fine, I’m only teasing. Besides, I think after your encounter with your buddy over there, I think you’ve had enough embarrassment for the night.”

He laughed and nodded, “Ted’s a bastard, but he’s our office bastard...a mess, but he’s our mess.”

“I see,” she smiled, “I figured….what does he write?”

“Mostly fluff pieces,” Paul shrugged, “He used to write obituaries, but then he spelled it as O-bitch-uaries, and would only write a few sentences which mostly just amounted to the fact that the person was dead.”

Emma laughed out loud, snorting in a way that her mother would have found appalling, “How did he not get fired?!” 

“Beats me,” Paul laughed, “But he was good at writing things when his pay got threatened, and he was better at being a columnist than he was when he was supposed to be sensitive, so our editor kept him on.”

A loud crash from the other side of the room drew their attention to the man in question, where he had toppled over a table.

“Quite the charmer, huh,” she muttered, “If he wasn’t drunk off his ass, I would have smacked him...I feel sorry for the _Latte Hattay,_ whoever she may be.” 

At those words, Paul flushed dramatically and she could have sworn she felt his blood pressure rise, “Y-Yeah...it’s just something he’s been saying...and nobody knows what it means, I mean- I don’t know what it means...it’s just...um- Ted, being...well, Ted.”

She laughed and he chuckled nervously, his blue eyes unbelievably wide. 

“It’s amazing what you can know about people from serving them drinks day in and day out. Get a load of these characters,” Emma smiled, gesturing to the mass of people who surrounded them, “You see that cop over there, the one with the red hair?”

Paul glanced over his shoulder to see a man halfway through a pint of beer. His policeman’s uniform was stained with spilt alcohol, and his red hair was a mess. Besides this, his arm was wrapped around Zoey, who was giggling and chattering away with him. 

He nodded, “Oh, yeah, I know him…”

“Sam Wentworth, asshole cop,” Emma nodded in his direction, “Stepping out on his wife with Zoey.”

“I work with his wife,” Paul explained, “Sweet lady, rotten luck. Though, to be fair, she’s also stepping out on him with Ted.”

Emma’s eyes widened, leaning in like she’d just heard the best gossip she’d ever heard. There was something about the way that he delivered the information that didn’t seem like he was gossiping, but talking about it seemed forbidden to him. Regardless, Emma found it adorable.

She smiled wide, “No shit?” 

“Yeah,” Paul nodded, his nervous energy leaving him through the ease of conversation, “Honestly, the whole office knows she deserves better than both of them, but...Ted’s good to her. Even if it is just...you know…”

Emma nodded with a small smile, “See those three in the back, behind the stage?” 

Paul followed her gesture towards a group of three people. The first was a woman, with russet curls set neatly under a fedora, with wide-legged navy pants and a pinstripe jacket. The second was a man with dark skin and a round face, his intelligent dark eyes buried in his cards as he seemed to calculate his move. He looked sharp in his cream button-up shirt and burgundy tie with matching suspenders. The third, however, was another man, with rust-colored hair and olive-green eyes. He had a neatly-trimmed beard and long messy hair that was pulled back in a pony-tail. His pinstripe suit was black and he elegantly held a cigarette in his hand as he threw down a set of cards that made his companions groan. 

Emma had seen these three frequent the bar often, and knew their names well enough. 

“Who are they?” Paul asked, his eyes quizzically studying the group.

“That,” Emma leaned in so she could whisper, “Is John McNamara, Xander Lee, and the woman is June Schaeffer…”

Paul’s eyes widened, “You mean the trio who took down the Cross Cartel?” 

“The same,” Emma nodded, “They come in here often...always order whiskey and always play gin rummy...totally legit private dicks.”

“Really?” Paul raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” Emma grinned, “If you ever need a PI, those three are who you’ll need to go for...they could uncover any affair, any dirty-dealings...they’d know.” 

“Really?” Paul laughed, “You think they could read your mind?” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me?” Emma laughed, “Why? You nervous? You have something to hide?” 

Paul laughed, “No...I don’t think I could ever successfully hide anything from anyone, especially not you…”

For whatever reason, Emma found herself blushing.

She didn’t know why but something about the way he said the words coaxed a smile onto his face. He was so sweet. So earnest in the ways he would say things. Always genuine in comparison to the way other people would talk to her, which was a low bar for people to surpass when it came to being a decent human being...so why did it affect her in the ways that it did?

She probably spent too long thinking about it, because they both blushed when they realized they were just staring at one another. 

“So-um,” he coughed, clearly trying to get his voice under control, “Where’s your friend?” 

She smiled and pointed to the piano, where the man himself was playing away with the precision and power of a much younger man. 

“That’s him?” Paul asked, as his eyes widened. 

“That’s him,” she nodded, “I think I might have already told you this, but he’s the only decent music we get in here…”

“Huh,” Paul nodded, “He’s good.”

The man in question was indeed, good. In fact, his skills at the grand piano were wonderful. 

They could only see the back of his white dress shirt, and black suspenders as he worked at the piano. His brown tweed blazer crumpled to the side and in danger of falling off of the bench with as much as he moved to create the appropriate tempo for the song. On the old grand piano, there was a crystal ashtray with smoldering cigars and cigarette butts placed in it, almost giving him an aura of mystery and dramatics. When she’d asked him if he wanted her to move the ashtray, he’d refused, saying that smoke would not shake him from his performance. Through the faint puffs of smoke, however, one could see a head of neat silver hair, his back hunched over the ivory keys as he focused intently. 

To most people, the man would have seemed intimidating, but to Emma, he was just plain ol’ Henry Hidgens. 

As the song came to an end and people clapped, one of their other hired pianists came up to give the old man a break, although she was fairly certain he would have played all night if given the choice. As he turned around, she watched Paul’s face as he took in the man’s appearance. 

Henry had a rather severe face, age clearly not entirely agreeing with him (although, he looked far younger than most geezers his age). He was thin and spry for a man of about sixty-three, with piercing blue eyes and a hawk-like gaze. As he approached the bar, he withdrew a cigarette case from his pocket and held it between his teeth as he pulled on his tweed jacket. Though his face was in a scowl that put most people on the edge, he walked with a swagger that made Emma laugh. He was a dramatic old man, but like her, he was lonely, which was why it was easier for her to grow fond of him. She definitely liked his company more than the other pompous bands that they hired, or people who liked to claim they were musicians. 

She waved her hand out, “Henry! Over here! There’s someone I want you to meet!”

The old man smiled as his eyes fell on her and he walked over, “Hello, Emma, dear.”

She gestured to Paul, who was tapping his fists together as Henry sat down on the barstool nect to him, “This is Paul Matthews, he’s the reporter I told you about, he wanted to ask you about the Kilgore case?”

“Ah yes, of course!” Henry exclaimed with much gusto, “Paul Matthews, your reputation within the performing and writing community knows no bounds…” 

Paul gingerly took the old man’s hand and shook it, “You’ve heard of me?” 

“Why, yes, of course,” Henry smiled, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag, “The reviews you write for the Gazette are some of the most well respected by the performing community, although I must say, your analysis of Ziegfeld's _Show Boat_ was rather unfair…”

“Ah, well…” Paul sighed, looking down, making Emma remember what he’d said about singing and dancing making him feel rather uncomfortable, “To each their own.”

“Amen to that, even when their opinion is wrong,” Henry smiled. He turned to Emma, “Emma dear, could I get a Mint Julep, please?”

“Anything for you Hen’,” Emma smiled, “Besides Paul, you’re one of the only customers I like.”

“Oh!” Henry’s eyes widened as she turned to make his drink. He turned to Paul, “So _you’re_ the Black Coffee man?” 

Emma had to stop herself from spilling the bourbon. She hoped with all her might that she wasn’t blushing. 

“I-um…” Paul mumbled, “I suppose so?” 

_Damn. That had made him uncomfortable._

“Oh, well you see,” Hidgens continued, oblivious to either of their discomfort, “Emma, here, is one of my closest friends. Oftentimes she visits me, brings me groceries when work is overwhelming, and she’s-”

She made a face at him over her shoulder and he trailed off, clearly getting the message. 

“Mentioned you in passing,” Hidgens finished, substituting something simple as opposed to the real truth. She’d somehow managed to bring up the “Black Coffee Man” almost every single time she’d gone to see Hidgens, because every story was somewhat noteworthy. They weren’t stories of the way he struggled to order something without slightly stumbling over the words. Rather, they were stories of how unlike almost everyone else in this godforsaken town, he treated people who worked behind counters as _actual people,_ which was a rare occurrence. It had gotten to the point where Hidgens would almost _ask_ about the “Black Coffee Man” every time she’d come to see him since she’d brought it up so often. It was silly, she knew, but the way he would smile at her and thank her would make even the worst days seem light, which was a lot for her to ask for. 

“So,” Paul said as Emma passed Henry his cocktail, “Emma said you worked for the coroners office?” 

“Yes, old boy,” Henry nodded, “Dreadful and remarkable work it is...I would play piano, or sing and dance for a living, but unfortunately, for old men such as myself, that doesn’t pay the bills.” 

Paul nodded, “She also said that you know the ins and outs of the office itself? Noteworthy cases, etcetera?” 

“Son,” Henry took a sip of his cocktail, “To cut to the chase, _yes,_ I was the one to examine the body of Andrew Kilgore...one of the most remarkable stiffs I’ve worked with.”

“Remarkable?” Paul asked, looking mildly disturbed, his eyes darting over to Emma who only offered him an encouraging smile, “Remarkable how?” 

“Well, first off,” Henry said, taking a drag from his cigarette again, “I can tell you right now that Andrew Kilgore’s death was…” he looked around suspiciously, “Emma, can the three of us talk about this out back?” 

“Sure,” she nodded, “Follow me.”

As she stood, Hidgens flinched at the sounds of the man who’d replaced him on the piano, “Good God!” he exclaimed, “Who taught that man how to play?” 

She merely shrugged, not sure how to explain Nora’s desperation for live music to the man. 

She knew that Henry was a suspicious man, and the presence of prying eyes in the bar when discussing one of his cases, especially one as high-profile as the Kilgore death was something he didn’t want the public to hear about. She didn’t care about the fact that she was abandoning her post at the bar, not when people were too preoccupied with the cacophonous banging of the piano. Rather than following Emma out to the back alley, however, he strode ahead, leaving Emma to walk alongside Paul. 

“Is he always like this?” Paul whispered.

“Yes,” Emma nodded, “He’s a little intense, but you get used to it when you’ve known him for a while… he just doesn’t trust the people in the bar when it comes to cases like this...must be serious, huh?” 

“I guess,” Paul nodded, “I’ve never really handled such a high-profile story like this one, though.”

“Hey, if your reviews are worth anything, then your writing’s definitely worth a damn,” she shrugged, “At least you’re getting an interesting experience.”

“I suppose so,” he whispered as they were met by a blast of cold air as Hidgens ushered them into the cold and dark alleyway. 

“I don’t think there’s any way to say this,” Hidgens sighed as he leaned dramatically against the wall, making Emma have to stifle her laugh as the streetlight illuminated his face, “But Andrew Kilgore’s death was not natural, and I doubt it was a suicide either.”

“So…” Paul whispered, his eyes wide, “A murder?” 

“Murder most foul,” Hidgens nodded, “Upon examining the dead man’s belongings, first a foremost, I found that he had not been in the lake water for long, which makes it unlikely that he jumped from one of the cliffs and just floated ashore, in addition, there was water in his lungs, but judging from how long he appeared to be submerged, he wasn’t drowned.” 

Paul removed a small notebook from his pocket and began to take notes. 

“The man’s clothes were mostly in order, with the exception of one button missing on his coat, and a small tear on his vest, almost as if someone had grabbed him by the vest,” Hidgens went on, “Another peculiar thing was the matter of his tie and pocket square...they didn’t match…”

“They didn’t match?” Emma asked, “Hidgens, what does that have to do with anything?” 

“With wealthy businessmen like this, Emma, they _always_ match,” Hidgens nodded, getting riled up in the dramatics of the moment, “The tie was a shade of Salmon, while the pocket square was made of Apricot silk. With faint embroidery on it, no less!”

“Which means?” Paul asked. 

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there, old boy,” Hidgens waved him off, “Now...onto the more grisly stuff…” 

He clapped his hands together and chuckled, making Paul and Emma both jump, “At first, I assumed that the man was...very freckly...but then, I remembered that Andy Kilgore evaded most press pieces because he never went outside, and judging from the-”

“Wait, slow down,” Paul held up a hand, “What do you mean, ‘very freckly’?”

“I mean, a ginger like that,” Hidgens laughed, “You’d have to assume…”

“No, that’s not what I meant-” Paul muttered. 

“He means that any photograph of Kilgore never captured any freckles, Henry,” Emma interrupted, “So, you saying that he was ‘very freckly’ indicates that you found some…” 

“That I did, Emma dear,” Hidgens exclaimed, “That I did! Upon externally examining the body, I found several areas of hyperpigmentation, which essentially means he had dark freckles where there should have been none. Usually, you find freckles on a person's arms and shoulders, but these? These were on his lower abdomen and lower back. In addition, their coloration was almost grey.”

“So what-”

“Please, don't interrupt me, my boy, I'm on a roll!” Hidgens exclaimed, making Emma laugh. His face fell, “Emma, this is very serious business, a man has died.”

“Yes, yes, of course, ” she snickered, “Sorry, do go on.”

“When I opened poor Mr. Kilgore up, I found lesions within his intestines, as well as necrosis of tissue in his kidneys, stomach, intestines, the liver even… And it looked as if the mucosa of his organs had also seen some tissue death, which of course indicates…”

He held out his hand as if pausing for effect, “Poisoning!”

“Poisoning?” Paul asked, blue eyes wide. 

“I’m afraid so,” Hidgens nodded, taking a long drag of his cigarette again before blowing it out increasingly fast, allowing the smoke to billow in an almost cinematic plume, “And judging from the fact that I also found lesions in his esophagus, it was consumed...and given how much was consumed, he would have been dead within minutes.”

“What was the dosage,” Emma chimed in, “Could you tell?” 

“I would say greater than 180 Milligrams, at least,” Hidgens nodded. 

Emma let out a low whistle, “And he consumed all of it?”

“I would assume so,” Hidgens nodded, “The lesions were large, the blood buildup was great…he was poisoned.” 

“Sir,” Paul began, “You don’t think that he did himself in?” 

“Not with arsenic,” Hidgens shook his head, “Unless he was willing to put himself through that much pain, he could have found easier ways to do it...no, this was intentional, but not his intent. I’ll look into it more, though.”

Paul nodded, “Is there anything else that could implicate homicide?” 

“I’m not sure,” Hidgens whispered, taking another drag, “But if there was, I think it would have to do with the pocket square...different material, different color, I’ll examine it further...see if it could be a calling card?” he shrugged, “I’ll contact you if I think of anything else…”

“Thank you,” Paul nodded, holding out his hands to shake Hidgens’ hand “This was a great help.”

“If you ever need to contact me, Emma here can give you my address,” Hidgens said carefully, “But for the most part, I would let you know if there are any changes...gotta keep those good stories coming, my boy…”

Paul laughed nervously and looked down, “Yeah...I guess..”

“Everyone loves a good murder,” Hidgens made a dramatic hand gesture, “Adds a little bit of _drama_ to this old town…”

“I suppose so,” Paul laughed, “But don’t you think that-”

“I’m going to stop you right there, my boy,” Hidgens said, “Life will always have it’s course...All the world’s a stage, Shakespeare once said, and I believe the plot of life will always need some _pizazz_.”

“Hidgens, at this rate you’re gonna convince him _you’re_ the killer,” Emma groaned. 

“I suppose you’re right, my dear,” Hidgens smiled, “Well, before the clientele’s ears are destroyed by that _barbarous_ noise maker, I must take my place…” 

He clapped Paul on the back, making the man stiffen, “Paul, until next time…”

“Yeah,” Paul muttered, watching as the old man did a dramatic wave with his hands and quickly vanished back into the building, leaving Emma and Paul alone in the alleyway. 

Emma laughed lowly, “I swear there’s a method to his madness… he’s a little intense, but his information is factual.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” Paul chuckled, “Thank you for introducing me to him, it was a huge help.”

“No problem,” she shrugged, before looking down, “I hope he wasn’t too forward...he’s a little...dramatic.”

“He’s definitely intense,” Paul smiled, “But he definitely knew what he was talking about.”

“Yeah,” Emma laughed, “He’s a crazy old coot, but he’s my crazy old coot.”

They both laughed, their breath illuminated and intermingling in the cold night air. For a moment they just stood there, neither of them really knowing what to say. 

“I don’t suppose,” Emma began, biting down on her lip, “...that I could convince you to come in and have a drink?” 

Paul’s face flushed adorably, “Um-what...uh, really?” 

“I mean, you don’t have to,” Emma reasoned, “I mean, I know you have a lot of work to get done, but if you wanted to stick around and judge the late night drunkards with me...you’re more than welcome. I mean, it _is_ a public bar.”

Paul smiled, his eyes wide, “Emma- I would love to…”

_“OH MY GOD!!! OH MY GOD!! SOMEONE HELP!!!”_

A blood-curdling shriek erupted through the alleyway, making both of them jump, Paul’s eyes widening.

Down the alleyway, Emma could just make out the silhouette of Nora, probably out back for the sake of her smoke break. Emma ran forward, Paul following close behind her. 

“Nora! Nora, are you okay?” she called. 

Nora only responded in a fearful whimper. Despite Emma not being close to the woman, the scream...it reminded her too much of the fear and grief that she’d seen in Europe. 

As she ran through the fog, she was able to see that Nora looked like she was about to be sick, shaking and screaming into her hands. 

“Nora! Nora!” Emma shouted, “What’s wrong? What is it?”

“Call the police!” Nora screamed, “Call the army! Call somebody!”

Emma steadied her arms on Nora’s, trying to calm the hysterical woman down, “What’s wrong? What is it?”

Nora only released a few muffled screams into her hands, shaking uncontrollably. Emma scanned the alleyway, almost careening into Paul who was standing right behind her. 

She turned to look at him and saw that he too had gone pale. 

“Paul?” she asked, horrified to see that tears had begun blooming in the corners of his eyes. As if on instinct, he used his free hand to pull her back gently, almost as if he was moving her away from whatever it was that caused he and Nora distress.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. He raised a hand to his mouth looking like he was going to vomit as he stared down at the wet ground. 

She followed his gaze to the ground, and had to stifle a scream. 

It was a man. Stiff, cold, and dead. His mustache was pasted to his upper lip as a disgusting white foam poured from his mouth. His dark eyes were wide as the puddles from the rain from earlier in the day soaked his body. With a start she recognized a man who less than an hour before had been hollering and shouting in a drunken stupor. 

Paul’s next words left him in a terrified whisper.

  
“ _Ted?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ted stans, I’m so sorry...
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you would like!! If you need any clarification on anything that happened, please ask questions in the comments or send me an ask on tumblr, I’d be happy to answer any questions!!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!! I really hope you’re enjoying this!!!
> 
> My Tumblr:@ShhImAvoidingSleep


	5. The Only ’No’ they Understand is From the End of the Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Emma receive information from interesting new allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the update being so late!! I swear I've not forgotten about this one!!!
> 
> !!TRIGGER WARNING!!: mentions of suicide, blackmail, poisoning

October 25th, 1946

Beanies 

Paul could barely breathe as he sat inside the stuffy air of the bar, having been ushered in once the authorities had been notified of the presence of a body. He felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest as the memory of Ted’s stiff and dead body entered his mind, unable to purge it from his memory. 

He couldn’t tell if it was hours or minutes since he’d seen Ted laying there, his face contorted in a look of terror that Paul was sure he wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon. He couldn’t believe it. 

He would have never considered Ted his best of friends. He might have been more of an acquaintance or an office annoyance than he was close to him, but the fact remained that he was still a person. He didn’t deserve to die...and especially not like this. 

From the moment he’d identified his coworker, laying dead in the bar, Hidgens and the private investigators that Emma had shown him from earlier came running at the sound of the screams. The Hatchetfield Police Department had shown up not long after, beelining for Sam, who was drunk off his ass and couldn’t tell that a man had been found dead and instead, believed his coworkers to be joining him for a pleasant after-hour drink. As a result, all of the inhabitants of the bar had been shoved back into the main hall, only seven people knew that Ted was dead. These were Paul, Nora, the three private investigators, whose names were escaping him and he couldn’t bring himself to care, Hidgens, and Emma…

Emma hadn’t left his side since they’d discovered Ted. She just stood beside him when the police arrived, in just as much shock as him. Once the police had arrived and shoved them back into the bar, she’d just stayed beside him, the group of shocked people all remaining in the bar room as the world around them seemed to spin. They’d found a small space in the corner, a vacant table where the two of them sat, waiting for the officers to come in and tell the rest of the people in the room what the hell was going on. He was leaning down, his head between his knees as he attempted to ward off the nausea as the image of Ted’s face kept appearing in his mind. Emma remained beside him, sitting in shock, saying nothing. 

After a while, when the noise of people whispering and demanding to be let out of the bar seemed to fade into white noise, leaving the small crowd bewildered. 

“Hey, Paul?” Emma whispered. 

“Hmm…”He hummed in response, unable to think of anything else to do in responding. 

“Can I touch your shoulder?” she asked, her voice quiet. 

He glanced up at her, seeing the concern in her eyes as the world around them continued to spin endlessly. He could tell that she wasn’t nearly as shocked as he was, since she’d only known Ted as a bar patron, but instead, she could see concern unlike anything else in her lovely dark eyes that stared back at him. 

He managed a nod, glad that she had the courtesy to ask. Not many people, when he was overwhelmed or confused, had the tact to ask him if he was comfortable with being touched, or even bothered to ask if he was alright, depending on the person. 

Gently and slowly, she placed her hand on his shoulder, her thumb rubbing almost instinctive and comforting circles into his shoulder blades, allowing some of the tension to release almost instantly. Though he couldn’t stop shaking as the image of Ted’s dead body appeared in his mind over and over again, she allowed for some distraction to be had. 

“Paul…” she whispered, “I’m so...so sorry...I know he was your friend…”

Paul chuckled humorlessly, trying to distance himself from the tears that were fighting their way from behind his eyes, “He was a bastard…”

“But he was your office bastard,” she whispered, “It’s okay…”

For a while they just sat there, looking at one another as if they were waiting for the other to speak. It looked almost as if she was at a loss for words and unsure of what she should say.

After a while she chuckled nervously, “Sorry...I’m not good at the whole...comforting...thing, you know?” 

He smiled slightly, “It’s okay…” he shrugged, “You’re better at it than most, really...at least you’re honest…”

They didn’t feel pressured to speak as silence enveloped them once more, listening to the more ambient sounds of the bar. Some people were demanding to be let out. Some people inevitably starting rumors of what had happened in the alleyway, why the police were there, and why they were being kept inside. It sickened Paul to hear the complaining and annoyance of the people that surrounded him, but honestly, he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

It was a comfort that somehow, he didn’t feel pressured to say anything to Emma, and she didn’t feel pressured to say anything back. Though they were both extremely tense from the events of earlier in the evening, they’d fallen into a comfortable silence. Somehow providing comfort in the silence.

He bit down on his lip, wagering a small glance over at her. He was glad that someone was there for him. He’d never been one to enjoy physical contact, especially when it came to new people, but something about the way she asked for permission, rather than just assuming, and constantly gauging how he felt was strangely comforting to him. In some ways, he felt like he could trust her already in ways that he’d been unable to trust people he’d known for the longest time. He took deep breaths as they sat there, the warmth of the bar fading as more and more people shifted around, not enjoying clumping in tight spaces the more he tried to avoid people. Emma continued to rub gentle circles into his back, when the sound of footsteps snapped both of their attentions upward. 

Standing before them was one of the three people that Emma had pointed out to her earlier, just moments after Paul had last seen Ted alive. The one with the black pinstripe suit and long red hair. He regarded the pair of them with an almost inquisitive gaze as he regarded them, making Paul want to shrink back. He’d heard stories of the shadowy trio of private investigators who’d taken down several of the shadiest crime organizations in Hatchetfield over the years. Bill had commonly been the one to follow their stories, characterizing their exploits almost as if they were the heroes out of a fantasy novel. The reason for that, of course, was the fact that the trio liked to stay out of the spotlight, shirking away from any opportunity Bill would try and get in order to get a quote out of the three. Regardless, as Paul looked up at the face of John McNamara, he knew the man certainly lived up to his reputation. 

Emma straightened, almost defensive in the eyes of one of the three most famous and prolific private investigators in the town, her eyes caught in a small glare, “Is there anything I can get you, or are you gonna keep staring?” 

Instead of taking offense to Emma’s snappy tone, the man smiled slightly, “Please, Ma’am,” he spoke gently and officially, almost military-like, “I’m not here to do harm, but myself and my companions believe yourself and your friend here…” he paused on the word ‘friend’, almost as if he expected them to correct him, perhaps suggest that their relationship was something more, when they didn’t he continued to talk, “We believe that you might know something about what happened this evening…”

“R-Really?” Paul stammered, “Well...I don’t think it would be...appropriate to reveal anything before the police…”

“The police are idiots, my friend,” the second man, the one with the burgundy suspenders and tie stepped forward, emerging from almost out of nowhere. 

“Xander,” John sighed, “We can’t talk that way about the people who’ve helped us before…” 

Xander shrugged, “It’s true, John...I mean, have you  _ seen  _ the way Wentworth the scumbag was drinking tonight? Even sober, he couldn’t solve a case if the crook was delivered to him gift-wrapped.”

John sighed, before turning his gaze back on Paul and Emma, “We already know a man was found dead, son...what’s your name?” 

Xander chuckled before Paul could answer, “John, step up your game...that’s Paul Matthews...he works at the gazette…”

“Hmm,” John hummed under his breath, “With the dead man?” 

“Affirmative,” Xander confirmed. 

Paul couldn’t believe what he was hearing, ‘Wh-what? How do you know who-”

“I try to know people,” Xander smiled kindly, “It makes solving cases easier…”

Emma shook her head and sighed, “Look, I don’t know why you guys are trying to concern yourselves with-”

“The dead man’s name is Ted Spankoffski,” a third voice entered the conversation, making Paul and Emma jump. They whirled around to see the woman in navy that had been playing cards with Xander and John. Paul vaguely remembered Emma saying her name was June...or was it May? It was a month of the year, right? Perhaps April? 

The woman straightened her white blouse, the blazer of her very stylish outfit making Paul believe he was looking at a far more confident version of Charlotte, with her soft turquoise eyes and stylishly curled hair. However, the woman’s style, trousers and a smartly-cut blouse diverged greatly from what his prudish and nervous friend would have worn, and the way she walked about the room was intimidating. 

“He worked for the Hatchetfield Gazette, and from the looks of it, he was poisoned,” the mystery woman continued. 

John’s brow furrowed, “Like Kilgore?” 

Paul’s mind was spinning, “Kilgore?”

His comment was ignored as the woman continued, “Same MO from the looks of it, but we have nothing concrete until the autopsy reports are released.”

John nodded, “Think it’s connected, June?” 

The woman - June, apparently, shrugged, “Don’t know what a shipping tycoon and a fluff-piece columnist would have in connection, but still, that is two deaths in a span of two days.”

Xander nodded and turned to Paul and Emma, both of them looking very confused, “You were both talking to Henry Hidgens earlier, yes? The man from the coroner’s office assigned to Kilgore’s body?” 

Emma managed a small nod, “Yeah…”

Xander hummed under his breath, “We were hoping to catch him earlier this evening to ask him a few questions about the Kilgore case, but it appears you got there first...mind telling us what you asked him?” 

Paul was just about to open his mouth when Emma spoke up, “Whoa...what does it matter to you?” she eyed the trio in front of her suspiciously, “You tell us what you know and we’ll tell you what we know.”

The trio eyed one another suspiciously before John sighed, “I’m assuming you tracked Hidgens down because you’re a columnist, Matthews?” 

Paul managed a nod, “Nobody else wanted to handle the Kilgore story, so I got placed with it.”

John hummed under his breath, “You see...we’re covering this case because we think it has something to do with the death of the late Mrs. Kilgore.”

Paul froze for a moment, his eyes widening as he suddenly recognized the meaning. 

“John…” Xander hissed. 

“What?” John shrugged, “If we’re going to get ahead in this case, then we need to trust  _ someone.” _

“Yes,” June nodded, “But them?”

Paul’s mind didn’t comprehend the three of them bickering slightly as he found his mind spinning. 

Jenny Kilgore.

Andrew Kilgore’s wife who’d been found dead in an alleyway nearly ten years beforehand. A woman who hadn’t made many public appearances along with her husband, but was definitely the subject of much gossip among Hatchetfield society. As far as Paul had known, they’d ruled her death a suicide and left it as that, labelling Mr. Kilgore a widower who disappeared largely from the public eye lest he made any shady deals. That had been long before Bill and Paul had even started working at the gazette. The only people who’d probably been working at the gazette back then had been Ted, who’d worked mainly in the mailroom for no reason other than he could do whatever he wanted and nobody would notice.

But Jenny Kilgore...

Emma seemed to understand the meaning behind this as well, “Jenny Kilgore’s death? Wasn’t that a suicide?” 

John nodded grimly, “From what the police could tell...yes. But from what we saw last night with Mr. Kilgore’s death, it might not be the case.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked, leaning forward.

“Nuh-uh,” June said quickly, “You first...what did the old man tell you about Kilgore’s death?” 

Paul and Emma looked at one another and back at the trio that stood before them. 

They didn’t  _ seem _ untrustworthy...after all, they’d taken down Wilbur Cross’ cartel the year before. Though this trio had been out of the public eye, they were, at the very least, heroes in the eyes of the few people who knew who they were.

Paul didn’t know what to think, “Why didn’t you just ask him yourself?” 

June sighed, “Because since they found your friend’s body out back, Mr. Hidgens was detained and called in to examine him. This is the second stiff the Hathetfield Police Department has found in a twenty four hour period, for all they know a homicidal maniac could be on the loose. They got to Hidgens before we did.” 

Paul looked at Emma again, who looked somewhat confused and conflicted. When she’d spoken of this trio before they’d found Ted dead in the alleyway, she’d been so full of admiration, but now that she was actually talking to them, she was unsure of whether or not she should trust them. 

He could understand that. 

Next to everyone in Hatchetfield was living in survival mode, especially since the war had ended. Coming back to such a small town had been like stepping out for a few moments, only to return and find a different place entirely. He knew from experience. 

Most people couldn’t afford to trust new people, no matter how much good they’d done in the world. Especially if they just met the person. 

Emma met his eyes, hesitancy in that gorgeous shade of dark brown. He wouldn’t tell them anything if she didn’t feel comfortable sharing it. Even if he was the one who’d needed the information from Hidgens for the story, but Hidgens was  _ her friend,  _ and if she felt like she couldn’t trust the three with whatever information Hidgens had given them, then he wouldn’t give it. 

After a few more moments of looking at him, she sighed and leaned forward, “Okay...here’s what we know.” 

\---

“-Because of all of that,” Emma finished, sighing as she took a sip of a glass of bourbon she’d fixed for herself, “They determined that Mr. Kilgore’s death wasn’t a suicide. Rather someone did him in...and less than five minutes after Henry went back in to play piano, we heard my boss scream and she...she found Ted.”

She shuddered at the thought of the man’s dead face, looking like it was contorted in pain and foaming at the mouth.

“Damn,” Xander sighed as he sipped at his own whiskey, “So it was arsenic that got Kilgore.”

“Just like his wife” June said, an unreadable look in her eyes, “You know what this means, John.”

“They are connected,” The man hummed, his green eyes staring off into space.

Emma was really starting to get fed up with their secrecy and cryptic words. 

“So,” she demanded, “Are you gonna tell us what that means to you? Or are you just going to leave us in the dark?” 

Paul sat up, “Yeah...and if Ted’s death is in any way connected with this, we deserve to know…”

Xander’s face softened, “I am truly sorry about your friend-”

“Then prove it,” Emma cut in, “Tell us what you know.”

John smiled slightly at her before sighing deeply, “We did make an agreement didn’t we?”

She nodded, throwing back the rest of her drink quickly, seemingly impressing Paul, who had yet to accept her offer for a drink, although she was certain he could have used one. Since she’d started spilling all of the information that she wanted them to know, he’d been nervously tapping his fists together under the table the five of them were seated at, talking in hushed tones as police officers gathered mostly-inebriated statements from the bar’s clientele. 

John looked at Paul, “The following cannot go on record, you understand? I can’t corroborate it as well as I’d like to, so if I see this in the paper, there will be consequences.” 

“I-I can’t print hearsay anyway,” Paul nodded nervously, his gorgeous eyes so wide as the somewhat intimidating leaned back, taking a drag from his cigarette. A small flare of anger at the cryptic man for vaguely threatening Paul, before he finally started to open his damn mouth.

“You see,” John began, “Back when we started our office, when it was just me and Xander, Mrs. Kilgore approached us with letters. Letters that seemingly were threatening her family, which included her husband and her newlywed sister and brother-in-law. They were presenting allegations that Mr. Kilgore and his family were money launderers and they had proof.”

“Blackmail?” Paul asked. 

“Blackmail  _ and  _ death threats,” John nodded, “She claimed that Mr. Kilgore took them with a grain of salt and probably wouldn’t remember the fact that they’d ever received them. We agreed to find the source of the blackmailer and hopefully put her to ease.”

John sighed and sat back, looking regretful, “We were inexperienced, but we were the only PI’s in Hatchetfield who guaranteed as much discretion as we could...but in that we were lazy.”

“Stupid,” Xander nodded, his eyes filled with regret as well, “Within two days of her first visit to us, she was found dead in an alleyway.”

Emma cursed under her breath at the thought. 

Jenny Kilgore’s death had been something of a minor sensation for Hatchetfield. It had occurred about a month before Emma had left Hatchetfield, and had only convinced her to leave the city even more so than she already had been.

Xander sighed, “They ruled it a suicide by willful consumption of arsenic...a suicide note was found with her.”

For a moment they just sat there in silence, considering the weight of the words. A woman had been found dead ten years ago, and if the conversation was going anywhere that Emma thought it was, then it was coming back to haunt Hatchetfield. 

John sighed again, “Another tribute to our stupidity in our youth was that we  _ believed  _ the note...we believed that the woman was so overwhelmed that she would do that to herself.”

“But now you don’t think that’s the case?” Paul asked, leaning forward. 

John shook his head, “Kilgore may have loved Jenny with his whole heart, but he did eventually move on. You wouldn’t believe the amount of men who’ve tried to hire us to prove their wives were stepping out on them with Kilgore. With what few public appearances he made, you could tell Kilgore wasn’t in any state to off himself...and I’m fairly certain now that Jenny wasn’t either.”

“You mean…” Paul began, trailing off as his eyes widened. 

Emma felt her heart skip a beat as she considered the words. 

If Jenny Kilgore had been receiving threatening letters, was it so hard to believe that someone would make good on those threats? If the letters were aimed at the Kilgore family, which was closely knit together, even with Jenny’s elusive sister whose name nobody knew, and Kilgore hadn't taken them seriously…

“You think that whoever was writing those threatening letters,” Emma began, looking up, “...made good on their threats?”

Xander nodded slowly, “After Kilgore was found dead, one of his lawyers, Goldstein, who owes us a favor and a half, tipped us off that his accounts had lost money significantly since Jenny had died.”

“I mean...he was grieving,” Paul began, “Shouldn’t excessive spending be an indicator of that?” 

“I thought so too,” John nodded, “But it was always a very specific amount of money taken out at specific times of the year by Kilgore himself, going somewhere nobody knew.”

Emma leaned forward, “So...you think after Jenny died, he started taking the blackmail a little more seriously?”

“Well, nobody knows where the money’s going,” Xander sighed, “But it certainly isn’t going towards his tenement development plan.”

Emma laughed bitterly as she thought about the dilapidated building in which she lived, “Yeah...no shit.”

“So...if he was sinking money into paying off the blackmailer,” Paul began, “Why didn’t someone like Kilgore use his influence on the police...I mean, we all know a few cops were in his pocket.” 

Emma was almost surprised that he didn’t make the ‘moral-upstanding citizen’ argument. The fact that he immediately managed to go straight to the Blackmailer argument with the cops in his pocket. After all, nobody in Hatchetfield was  _ that _ powerful without doing something  _ slightly  _ shady.

“Because he was already in the spotlight for what happened to Jenny,” Xander reasoned, “To call on the police would leave him exposed...sloppy. So, rather than acting the way you’d expect a reputable man to act he paid off the blackmailer since Jenny died…until the payments stopped a few months back.” 

She could see where this was going. 

“So you think they killed him because the payments stopped?” she asked, leaning in and lowering her voice so that nobody else around them could hear. 

“It’s possible,” John shrugged, “And if we find that Mr. Spankoffski here is connected in some way...then the killings have more meaning than we think.”

John stood from the table, “The information you two have provided us with tonight has been extremely helpful…” he turned to Paul, “As soon as I corroborate what I’ve told you I can let you print it, but for now? Stick with what the old man gave you.”

Paul nodded, looking exhausted as June and Xander jumped to their feet. Emma sighed and glanced over at the man, who looked like he’d just been overloaded with information. In almost perfect tandem they glanced up at John. 

“We’ll keep in contact with the two of you,” John nodded, “Unfortunately, you may have just been pulled into something dangerous...especially if you’re gonna be chasing after information like this.”

Paul swallowed hard in Emma’s peripheral vision. She didn’t know what compelled her to reach over and allow her fingers to gently trace over his own, but she pulled back as soon as his eyes widened at the action. She internally lambasted herself as she compelled herself to speech. 

“Thank you…” she managed, looking up at them, “Your office is on Potter Street, yes?” 

John nodded, “Twenty-three Potter Street, first floor, can’t miss it.” 

To punctuate this, he removed two small cards from his coat pocket and placed them down in front of them. 

“Welcome to the business,” John murmured, “We’ll be in touch.”

The three then retreated to their small table as more and more people were allowed to leave the bar. From beside her, Paul sighed. She turned to face him. 

“You okay?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as gentle as she could (which wasn’t much, considering how she was not a gentle person). 

He looked up at her, his eyes tired and worn out. She felt sorry for him, but impressed by the tenacity he’d exhibited when John and Hidgens had passed all of the information they’d had onto him.

Something about the way John had parted ways with them had made it seem like there was no going back now. They now understood too much about what could have been at stake. Regardless of whether or not she wanted to be a part of his case now, she knew that she wasn’t getting out of it any time soon. And somehow, she figured, she didn’t want to. 

“I think,” he whispered, “I might take you up on that offer for a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa...what does all of this new information mean?!?
> 
> Whatever happens, Paul and Emma are in the thick of it now.
> 
> Again! So sorry for the late update for this!!!
> 
> Please leave comments or kudos if you would like to! I really appreciate any feedback you have to offer!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! 
> 
> My Tumblr: @ShhImAvoidingSleep


	6. Within My Heart, I Know I'll Never Start to Smile Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul returns to work before receiving a cryptic phone call from Hidgens, which results in him and Emma discussing some more painful aspects of their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, it's been a hot second since I've updated this one, huh?
> 
> !!TRIGGER WARNING!!: Mentions of war, mentions of murder and poisoning.
> 
> Okay, so some of the subjects I wrote about in this chapter were tough to write about, as this is supposed to take place in post ww2 America. If anything I wrote is offensive or controversial, please let me know so I can fix this! If I wrote this with no intention of being ignorant, but if that is the case, I would like to know so I can fix it so PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know!!!

October 26th, 1946

The Hatchetfield Gazette

Walking into work the next day had felt like he had been chained to the ground with lead. He felt as if the steps he was taking felt weighted and like each took an hour to do. 

Work would never be the same anymore, he knew.

Ted had been working there long before he had. He was not that much younger than Ted, but since he’d started at the very bottom as a newsboy when he was ten years old, it had taken him a while to work his way up to a columnist while Ted somehow ended up with the job before he had (Honestly, Paul was fairly certain Ted had never actually formally gotten the job at the Gazette. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Ted just showed up one day and they just assumed he worked for them). So, naturally, when Paul eventually made it to being a columnist, Ted was there to make his first few weeks a living hell. 

That never ceased, of course...Paul had just grown used to it by the time he’d been working in the offices, but in some ways, Ted’s antagonism had just become a major part of his everyday life. 

In some strange, convoluted way, Paul knew he’d be unsure of what to do without it. 

He sighed as the elevator doors opened and he stepped out onto his floor, sighing as soon as he realized how quiet and empty the place felt already. He knew that news of Ted’s death must have already reached everyone, and it was clear, as the floor lacked its usual hustle and bustle, as well as the loud click-clack sounds of typewriters hard at work. 

He stumbled over to his desk and placed his stuff down, sitting at his typewriter with no idea what to do. He’d been working the Kilgore story for only twenty-four hours, and already so much had changed. He’d learned that Kilgore was in fact, murdered, he learned Emma’s name, he had a strange encounter with a rather eccentric professor, been approached by a relatively famous trio of private detectives, only after he’d found his annoying coworker dead in the alleyway behind where Emma worked.

He buried his face in his hands as the reality of it all sank in. 

Ted was dead.

Ted was by no means anybody’s favorite employee. To be honest, the fact that he’d remained working at the Gazette for as long as he did was something of a miracle. But he was a damn good writer, even if he annoyed most of the personnel, and he did add a certain form of joy and life to the office. Though the man often made Paul uncomfortable, the sadness remained in the knowledge that a person they knew was dead. 

“Paul…”

Paul looked up to see Bill, his eyes red and puffy as he leaned against his own desk. 

“Hey,” Paul whispered, “You okay?” 

Bill chuckled and shook his head, “Are you?” 

Paul shook his head, “I was there, Bill…” he found himself choking on the words, “I was there when they found him.”

Bill’s eyes widened, “Paul...Oh my God…”

Paul nodded and looked down, “It wasn’t pretty, man.”

Bill looked shocked beyond imagination, “Do you know what happened?”

Paul shook his head, “I don’t-”

“Paul? Bill?

They both looked up to see a tearful Melissa standing beside them. Like Bill, her eyes were red and puffy as she clutched desperately at her clipboard. She looked like she was trying very hard to prevent herself from crying as she shook, her voice sounding shaky and uncertain. 

“M-Mr. Dav-Davidson wants us in h-his office,” Melissa spoke quietly, “F-five minutes…”

Bill managed a comforting nod, “Thanks, Mel.”

With a small nod and a stifled cry, Melissa walked off, leaving Bill and Paul at their desks, the both of them unsure of what to do. 

Bill sighed and inhaled sharply, standing up from his seat and straightening his tie. 

“God, what are we going to do?” Bill whispered, “I mean, I know Davidson won’t shut us down, but now that Ted’s…”

His breath stuttered on the words as he pulled his blazer on, his eyes tired. Paul felt sorry for his big-hearted friend. No matter how much of an annoyance Ted had been to them, he was still their coworker, and he hadn’t deserved to die. 

“You know,” Bill whispered suddenly, “I didn’t believe it when I was told...He just always seemed...like he was invincible or something.”

Paul nodded, “Lotta good that did him, huh?”

Bill sighed and nodded, “A lotta good that did all of us.” Bill paused for a moment, watching as Paul stood from his seat, the silence deafening, “It’s just...he seemed to have so much...life in him. You’d think he’d die a weird old man, right?”

Paul sighed, “Yep…”

“Really makes you think, huh?” Bill mused as they began to make their way towards Mr. Davidson’s office. 

Paul hummed in response. Bill was right in the regard that he truly began to think when it came to the mortality they all faced. In some ways, the world was changing. 

Paul knew he should have met his death in the years he’d been overseas, but he hadn’t. He didn’t have the thrill of war or defending his country like everyone suggested he should. Of course, he hadn’t complained, and he would have given his life if it came to it. Everyone in his group said that he was the most likely out of them to die when they made it to the front. 

But he hadn’t. 

He lived and made it back when he found so many that he’d known hadn’t. 

Now Ted had made it to the afterlife. 

Bill sighed as he pushed open the doors of Mr. Davidson’s office, and almost instantly they were met by the scent of cigar smoke. As per usual, it was mixed with the scent of Mrs. Davidson’s perfume, but this time not as much in comparison to the smoke. Through the haze which usually seemed to paint Mr. Davidson’s office, Paul could see the man himself pacing around his office, looking even more disheveled than he had been when they found out Andrew Kilgore had died. The man’s suspenders and shirt were visible, his usual jacket left abandoned on his chair.

He looked up at Paul and Bill as they entered, his eyes big and puffy as he saw them. With a small gesture of his hands, he ushered them inside and closed the door, leaning against it as though he were trying to keep whatever it was that was out there away from them.

“Take a seat,” Mr. Davidson mumbled, “We have a lot to talk about.”

The only other people in the room were Melissa, who had out her usual notebook to take the minutes of the meeting, as well as Charlotte, who was silently sobbing into her handkerchief. Paul felt sorry for the woman as she cried. He knew that Ted was still a sleazeball and a major annoyance for their office, sleeping with anybody that moved, but he was better to Charlotte than her husband was to her, which made the situation all the sadder. 

“Okay, people,” Mr. Davidson sighed, his eyes filled with tears as he spoke, “As I’m sure you’re all aware, one of our employees, Ted Spankoffski, passed away yesterday evening.”

_ Passed away.  _

In some ways, Paul felt like the use of the words “Passed away” was a sugar coating of what had happened to Ted. Though he’d not witnessed Ted’s death, he’d seen the immediate after-effects, which had been horrifying for him to look at. He knew that Ted’s death hadn’t been peaceful, or that Ted had simply ‘passed’ into the great beyond. Rather, Ted had been sent to the other side in pain, in fear...the wrath of whoever was responsible leaving him to rot in a cold, damp, and dark alleyway. 

Paul swallowed as Davidson continued, pulling anxiously at his collar as Charlotte sobbed into her handkerchief, Melissa softly rubbing the shaking woman’s back. 

“The funeral will be this weekend, and I expect all of you to be there to pay your respects,” he sighed, “In the meantime, Charlotte, are you good with taking over his fluff pieces?”

Charlotte looked up, her eyes filled with tears. Slowly, she nodded before burying her face in her handkerchief again.

Davidson took a deep drag from his cigar before turning to face Paul.

“Matthews,” he snapped, making Paul’s blood run cold.

“Y-Yes, sir?” Paul stammered.

“Those pieces you gave me for today’s paper,” Davidson mused, sitting on his desk, “I loved them. Make sure to write more of them until this killer is found.”

“Killer?” Bill stammered, “Mr. Davidson...you don’t think Ted and Mr. Kilgore were-”

A loud sob from Charlotte cut Bill off. All of them glanced at the woman, who was clutching her small cross necklace close to her as she murmured some unintelligible things under her breath.

Paul felt extremely sorry for the woman. Charlotte certainly never had anything easy. Between the way that Sam treated her on a daily basis, and several other factors that carried into the woman’s life, it was no wonder the woman was as shy and meek as she was. Ted might not have been the best choice for her to carry on with- not that Paul was in support of any form of marital infidelity- but he was good to her. Better to her than Sam was...which was honestly a low bar to surpass. He couldn’t imagine what she was experiencing at the moment.

“You’re not suggesting,” Bill continued, his voice quiet as he glanced carefully at Charlotte apologetically, “That they were killed by the same person?”

Davidson took another drag from his cigar, “And why not?” 

“B-Because,” Bill stammered, “We don’t have the evidence…”

“Evidence shmevidence,” Davidson declared as he stood up from the desk, snuffing out the small embers on the end of his cigar, “We’ve got two men dead within two days. Both killed by arsenic. If this isn’t indicative of a serial killer, I don’t know what is.”

At the sound of Davidson’s suggestion, the whole room seemed to go still.

A serial killer?

Hatchetfield hadn’t seen a serial killer in over almost fifty years when that series of ax murders occurred in the Witchwoods. The man had been caught and brought to justice, but cases such as that of Lumber Axe, the mad woodsman had become household topics...and were renowned with so much horror, Paul didn’t even want to think about this becoming associated with everyday Hatchetfield lore. 

“A serial killer?” Paul asked, his mind racing, “Don’t you think it’s a little early to-”

“Well, he’s killed more than one person,” Davidson suggested, pacing the room intently, “Hasn’t he?” 

“But we don’t know-”

“We will, Matthews,” Davidson spoke calmly, but seriously, “You keep seeing those sources of yours and get the…”

“Are you sure that’s appropriate, sir?” Melissa piped up cautiously, “I mean...after losing Ted…”

“That’s the best way to avenge him!” Davidson threw up his arms in an almost manic expression, looking like he’d had one too many drinks this early in the morning, “He’d want us to cover this in the best ways possible and that’s what we’re gonna do, okay?”

He opened his mouth as if he were about to go off on another shouting tangent before a soft knock at the door interrupted him. 

“Sir?” 

They all turned to see one of the interns, a small obnoxious teenager wearing a dark blue button-up shirt standing in the doorway. He looked timid as he approached. 

“What?” Davidson demanded of the teen, making him flinch away. 

“Well-erm...sir,” the teen murmured, staring down at the ground, “Well...you see...there’s a…”

“There’s a what?” Davidson spoke rapidly, clearly on edge. 

“T-There’s a call for...f-for Matthews, sir…” The teen mumbled staring down at the floor. 

Everyone turned to Paul, who felt somewhat put on the spot. 

A call?

People rarely ever called him at the gazette, much less remembered his name enough to reference him 

“Um...a call for me?” he stammered, feeling somewhat out of place.

The intern nodded, “From a Mister…”

He glanced down at a small paper in his hands looking closely, as if he couldn’t read it properly. 

“A..a Mister…” the teen squinted down at the paper, his eyes filled with some confusion, “Hudgens?” 

Hudgens?

“I-um...I don’t…”

Oh. Right. 

Paul sighed, “You mean Hidgens?” 

The teen nodded, “He said it was urgent…”

What did the old man want now? 

He was partially confused, but a larger part of him was filled with dread. Judging from all of the information that he’d given them the night before, Paul was so certain it couldn’t get any worse. 

But, then again, life had a habit of saying “it can always get worse”.

Paul looked to Mr. Davidson, who merely shrugged and gestured for him to leave.

“If this has anything to do with the story,” Davidson began, “I don’t want to see you again until you have the next thing for the next edition. Got it?” 

“Y-Yes, sir,” Paul whispered.

“Get outta my sight,” Davidson said hastily with a large sigh.

Paul nodded quickly, bolting from the room before casting a small apologetic glance at Bill as their teenage intern gestured to the phone booth on the sidewall. 

Paul sighed and trudged over to the phone, nearly walking into five different desks as he did, his stomach twisted into several knots as he did. In some ways, he felt as though whatever Hidgens had to offer them had to be bad, but he didn’t want to indulge it. Part of him wished he’d never accepted the story, to begin with. 

When he’d made it to the phone, he picked it up where the teen had left it and he lifted the speaker to his ear while he leaned into the receiver, using his free hand to shut the frosted glass door to the phone booth behind him.

“H-Hello?” he began.

“ _ Well, it’s about time, my boy!”  _

He flinched away from the speaker as the loud and rapturous voice of the Professor nearly deafened him.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured, clearing his throat, “I was in a meeting.”

“ _ Any and all meetings you have will have to wait, my boy,” _ The Professor exclaimed from his end, “ _ There’s more to the case that I must alert you and Emma immediately.” _

“Emma?” he asked, panic twisting in his stomach, “What does this have to do with us? What did you find?”

“ _ I cannot disclose that over the phone,”  _ Hidgens spoke clearly,  _ “I fear you and your associates at the gazette are being watched. Emma too.” _

Paul considered the Professor’s words and the urgency in his voice. Why would they be targeting the people at the gazette? They’d done nothing to fit into whatever it was that had happened to Kilgore. There was no way that the killer would have their eyes on them...especially not Emma. Emma hadn’t done anything to provoke the killer...if there even was a killer to provoke as Hidgens...and the trio of private investigators believed. 

But...Ted was dead.

A seemingly untouchable tycoon and a lowlife reporter were both dead. Seemingly killed by the same person. 

Anybody could have been a target.

With a chill that seemed to shake his whole body, Paul spoke quietly into the receiver. 

“Okay...what do you want me to do?” 

\---

Emma sighed as the cab pulled up to the gothic manor in the middle of the Witchwoods. Had it not been for the likelihood of her getting lost in the middle of the woods on the way there, she would have walked, but given the abruptness of the Professor’s message and the fact that he claimed he couldn’t pick her up she was forced to shell out what money she could on cab fare.

She slipped a few spare bucks to the impatient cab driver as she got out of the car, murmuring a quiet thanks as she pulled her knit cardigan closer to herself as her feet sank into the chilly dirt left wet and muddy by the recent rain.

“You gonna be okay, Miss?” the cab driver asked her.

She sighed and nodded, “It’s fine…”

With a small sigh, she closed the door and didn’t watch as the car pulled away, almost as if they were trying to get as far away from the manor. 

She approached the gate, looking up at the manor of white stone. To anyone who didn’t know the man already inhabiting the home, people would have thought the house was haunted. The home was one of the oldest in Hatchetfield, and definitely nicer than most of the homes that were even in Pinebrook. But, because it was in the middle of the Witchwoods, it was steered clear of. Which was probably why Hidgens liked it as much as he did. 

The cold was biting against her face as she leaned up against the fence, waiting for the professor to come out and unlock the gates allowing her entrance. Of course, she could always climb the fence and jump it. After all, the Professor knew that it was in her nature to do such things. But the fact remained that he probably had since electrified the fence, or had some strange form of traps that would kill her before she could get to the other side, which meant she had to wait in the chilly overcast weather until Hidgens could gain the sense to open the gates. 

She leaned against the gate as she stood there, wondering if she was going to use the last cigarette in the small pack she kept in her small purse. She’d been trying to quit since she’d come back to Hatchetfield, but events such as those from the nights before, with Paul’s coworker being found dead behind her workplace, she’d been on edge. 

She’d gotten home late last night since the police had taken their sweet time when it came to gathering her and Paul’s statements. However, by the time she’d gotten back to her tenement, it was made evident that her neighbors had taken the ‘nothing good happens past ten o’clock’ rule quite seriously. It was a blessing, she supposed that Nora had closed the bar for the day, but she did have more work to do in hopes of getting a proper degree. 

The sound of a car engine caught her attention as a black old car pulled up. With a soft smile, she recognized the timid face of the driver. 

“Paul,” she whispered to herself as the man parked and exited the car, dressed in a work suit, looking slightly disheveled and tired in comparison to how put-together he normally looked, his cheeks painted somewhat red in the chilly air. 

He waved at her shyly, “Hi, Emma.”

“Hey, Paul,” she smiled softly at him.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmured as he stood, rather awkwardly, beside her, “Otherwise I’m fairly certain I would never have found his house.”

“Yeah,” Emma nodded, looking over her shoulder at the large house behind them, “He likes to live rather remotely. It’s a bit annoying for the cab drivers to find.”

“Why does he live out here anyway?” Paul mused, “Nobody wants to live out here.”

Emma shrugged, “I suppose he likes the drama of it all…”

He smiled softly before looking down. Despite their sudden ability to suddenly pick up a conversation, she could tell how exhausted he was. He sighed softly and stared down at the ground 

“How are you?” she asked softly, wary of the small sense of sadness on his face. 

He sighed and looked down, “It was weird...going into work with him not being there...but...I’m fine.”

The image of his dead coworker flashed in her mind, making her shudder. Part of her wished she knew how to erase images like that. To be honest, she’d seen worse when she’d been up in Europe during the war, but this...the killing of a man in cold blood behind a public place for the whole world to see was somehow more terrifying. When she’d been a teenager, she used to be so infatuated with the ideas of grizzly and gross murders. She’d been so enthralled by the idea of the macabre and the ways a person could kill another, she didn’t think about how horrific it could be in real life. 

“What about you?” Paul asked, meeting her eyes, “How are you doing?”

Emma shrugged, “I’ve seen worse...but it still sucks…”

His eyes widened slightly, “Worse?”

She sighed, “I mean… the world’s seen worse recently, hasn’t it?” 

He sighed as he understood her implication. His eyes turned downward. For a moment, Emma wondered if he had been one of the few people in Hatchetfield to go overseas and return. He didn’t strike her as a soldier, but the fact remained that once drafting began anyone and everyone could have been a victim to the pride and wrath of others.

“Were you over there?” he asked, “In Europe?” 

She inhaled and exhaled sharply, before nodding, “Yeah...since 36’.”

He cursed under his breath before looking at her, “Nursing?”

She shook her head before meeting his eyes, “Correspondence…”

There was a moment of silence before he looked at her, a soft look in his eyes.

“You were a war correspondent?” he asked, looking at her with some slight admiration in his eyes.

Images flashed through her head as she was suddenly drawn back to all of those years she’d spent in Europe. The atrocities she’d seen committed. The people she’d walked past as they all lay dying or dead. She’d seen so much in those years, and the nights she’d spend awake at her typewriter had made it seem like the visage of pain and tiredness hung over her like a curtain. 

She nodded, “Yeah… but not officially...” she bit down on her lower lip as she debated sharing the next piece of information with him. She sighed. She hadn’t shared this with anybody else after the war. Oftentimes bringing it up only made the fact that they’d happened all the worse. 

But, somehow, as she stared at Paul, she didn’t feel like this was something she needed to hide. Somehow, a small part of her was compelling to talk about it.

“You ever hear about the Fleur DeLisle letters?”

He nodded, “Yeah...I don’t think there was a guy from Hatchetfield over there or in Hatchetfield who didn’t know about them…”

She paused for a moment, looking at him, waiting for him to make the connection.

His eyes widened, “Wait…” his jaw suddenly hung slack, “Y-You…”

She nodded, “I wrote them.”

Originally, she’d gone to Europe a few years before the war, looking at smaller-scale countries such as Latvia and Lithuania for adventure and excitement, living in several different countries, and learning about the culture. Back then, it had been so exciting for her. She’d been very good at deceiving travel agents and somehow managing to pass between countries without losing much money, writing as much as she could about the culture. 

Then the war began. 

She found herself knowing that remaining in one place in Europe was not safe and moved around as much as she could, doing whatever it took to keep herself alive, whether that meant traveling through freezing cold weather with only the clothes on her back alongside other refugees or hiding out in ruins of old houses to stay alive. The fact that she remained alive before she found her place as a new war correspondent was a miracle in itself.

Somewhere along the way, after the United States joined the war, she found her paths crossing with several units, mainly around France or Spain...honestly, more than half the time she found herself forgetting where she was. Sometimes she’d found herself working as a volunteer, often helping nurses and other medical personnel with the wounded. She’d claimed to be a war correspondent with different units, eventually being able to secure passage and safety, all the while doing just what she’d claimed to be doing. The fact that she’d managed to avoid getting into trouble was funny to her, but overall it was a relief. 

Still...the pseudonym she made for herself, Fleur DeLisle, would make her almost infamous to the people she sent her reports back to. 

She’d seen so many people die. So many people were sent home in boxes, in pieces, or alive but missing arms or legs, or even eyes. 

And she wrote about it all. 

Her letters didn’t necessarily capture the patriotism and joy that most people wanted to read in those days. No explanation of the sacrifices she’d seen made would ever do it justice, but she tried. The letters only ended up being published in Hatchetfield, she learned later on. It seemed the hometown she’d despised while growing up had been the only ones able to stomach it. 

There were about twenty-six letters in total, each one detailing the conditions under which people were living, the fight that was being made, sometimes even the less than honorable things she’d witnessed, and she sent them back. She didn’t care whether or not people liked them. It just mattered to her that they understood. The piles of condolence letters she’d watched get signed had never seemed to end, and the screams of the dead and dying would forever echo in her mind. Even worse, however, was the knowledge of the draftees versus those who were regular army. Some of them were boys who’d just seen their eighteenth birthday. Some people believed that war was an art and an honorable process by which heroes were made. 

There was no honor in the ways that people on both sides had died. There was no honor in ways that the people who were caught in the crosshairs of it all had died.

War wasn’t this beautiful triumphant work of art that everyone back home seemed to envision. Rather, it was an ugly, blood-spattered painting, whose truth would be left in the attic while the perception of it remained without full understanding. 

She shuddered at the memories of all that she had seen.

Since returning to Hatchetfield after managing to secure safe passage back to America, she’d not told anyone about her letters, and the mention of Fleur DeLisle seemed to fade into nothingness. She was more than fine with that. All she’d wanted while she worked as a correspondent was to tell the truth, and she believed she had. To her, it didn’t matter how many people disagreed. She’d done her job and she had the privilege of staying alive when so many had died. 

She’d returned home to Hatchetfield in hopes of seeing Jane around Christmas before she found somewhere else to live, not planning to live in Hatchetfield long-term...until she found out that Jane passed the day she set foot in the godforsaken town for the first time in years. 

She sighed, pushing away the thoughts of Jane, and looked up at Paul who was still staring at her in shock, his blue eyes wide with an unreadable emotion. 

“Y-You wrote them?” he whispered, his eyes still wide.

She nodded, “Guilty as charged…”

“Holy…” he whispered, his hand going to my mouth.

“Sorry,” she muttered, looking down, suddenly ashamed. Part of her regretted ever writing the letters. She’d not wanted to write something ignorant of what the soldiers were really experiencing. After all, she  _ wasn’t  _ a soldier, so what gall did she have to write something of that regard? “I didn’t know if what I was writing ever did anything justice or…”

“No,” Paul shook his head, “No...those letters...God…” He sighed and leaned back against the gate, “Your letters were some of the most truthful and ballsy pieces of journalism I ever read in my life.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, a wistful look in his eyes, “We’d always get newspapers and letters a few months late, but by the time I’d get the newspapers from back home, we always looked forward to reading what you wrote...they were just…”

He trailed off, not meeting her eyes, “Honest...they didn’t sugarcoat what happened… Everyone in my unit might not have been able to agree on them, but I know I certainly appreciated them.”

For whatever reason, Emma found relief filling her veins. 

“I had only been a journalist for two or three years at the time,” Paul mused, “But when I was over there...damn...those letters meant a great deal to all of us. It didn’t give us false hope...but they helped us hold on to reality...in a sense.”

Emma’s heart seemed to twist oddly in her chest at his earnest expression. For whatever reason, she found herself feeling similar to the way she’d felt before they’d found Ted’s body in the alleyway the night before. 

Why? 

Why did she feel this way?

Why did this man’s validation suddenly mean so much to her?

She certainly didn’t need his validation to move on. To be honest, the letters were something that she regarded as something in the past. Hell, Tom and Tim didn’t even know about Fleur DeLisle.

So why had she felt so compelled to tell Paul about it...and why did it matter to her that he appreciated them?

She sighed, “I just...I wanted to tell the truth...and in some ways, to be honest, working as a correspondent gave me a safe way to get out of Europe...so I tried to do my best.”

Paul nodded, “And a damn good job you did…”

She sighed and looked down as she considered his words from before. 

_ “When I was over there…” _

The implications of his words somehow made her heart twist again.

She turned to face him, “You were over there?”

He sighed before nodding slowly, “Yeah...I was deployed in 1942.” 

Emma sighed as she saw the look of defeat that flashed over his expression. He fiddled with his fingers as he stared at the ground.

“Sorry,” she whispered, “You don’t have to tell me-”

“No,” he shook his head, offering her a soft smile, “It’s okay...y’know...it’s nice to actually talk about it for once…”

He lapsed into silence for a moment before looking up at her, “I was drafted...shortly after we joined…”

She cursed under her breath, “Jesus…how old were you?”

“Twenty-five,” he sighed, “Not the youngest of the bunch...but I ended up there all the same…I was in Belgium, mostly.”

There was a moment of silence as she looked at him. For a moment she considered where they’d both been. It was true when they called what had happened a world war. It felt like almost all the world had been forced to bear witness to the hatred humanity was capable of. The fact that they’d both been there, watching as the world around them seemed to collapse and lived to tell the tale was strange to her. She only knew one other person from Hatchetfield who’d been overseas, and that was her brother-in-law, who hated her guts. 

“You know,” Paul chuckled, “It’s funny...you come back after being over there for so long, everyone says it’s gonna all be the same as it was before…”

He sighed and she continued the sentence for him.

“But it’s not…” she whispered, “You have to find a way to live in peace because you’re so used to living in war.”

His eyes softened and he nodded, “Yeah…”

There was a moment of silence as they stared at one another, a strange kind of soft understanding passing between them. They’d both seen so much in a calamitous time in the world, and they were both here, alive and safe…

The fact that they’d found themselves in the middle of another war, albeit a far more private and secretive one, was chilling to her.

Part of her wished she’d known him before the war... before the world was exposed to regimes of cruelty. It was strange to her. Two days ago, she’d not even known his name, but suddenly it felt as if she’d known him forever. Almost as if her soul knew his...whatever damn sense that made. 

“Paul…” she whispered not knowing what it was that she really wanted to say to him, “I-”

_ “There you are!!!” _

She was snapped out of her contemplation and whirled around to see the Professor storming out of his house, wrapped in a fancy coat, his hair looking unharmed from the cool winds of the day.

She glanced at Paul, who looked slightly flushed as the Professor approached the gates, producing a small key from his pocket as to unlock it. From the corner of her eyes, she could see him looking at her, a slight amount of softness in his gaze before he was snapped to attention by the Professor. 

She turned to see the old man muttering to himself as he hastily opened up the gates.

“Professor,” she greeted him with a nod as the rusty gates swung open and she and Paul were allowed entrance, “What’s all of this about?”

Hidgens grinned madly as he started to lead them to the house, “Just a moment, Emma dear…” he called as he approached his front doors, before looking at her dramatically over his shoulder, “What I have to show the both of you is a matter of life or death… with death being the more likely option.”

Emma faltered in her steps before she looked at Paul, who looked just as uncertain as she did. 

Somehow, in her heart, she knew that she and he were walking into another war. 

A more private and quiet one, perhaps....but whether they liked it or not, the war had found the both of them again.

And somehow, she found herself grateful that she was walking it with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since I've updated this one!!! I've not forgotten about this little AU! (Also, I'm thinking of ways to make this a series, but I'll have to finish some of my other WIP's before that's put on the table)
> 
> So...the Hatchetfield Gazette is not the same without Ted.
> 
> Wonder what Hidgens found.
> 
> Paul and Emma's paths have crossed more times than they know, haven't they?  
> (Also, they're still smitten with one another, in case you didn't know)
> 
> Please leave comments or kudos if you would like. Your feedback means a lot to me!!!  
> Again, if anything I wrote about, in regards to the postwar facets and wartime perspectives were ignorant, please let me know. It was not my intention to offend anyone, but please know that if that was the case I will fix it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! 
> 
> Please continue to wear your masks and stay safe!! Here in Texas, a mandate which suggests that masks aren't required. Please do not forget that we are still living in a time of Covid-19, and health is not only something that concerns only you. It is a matter of PUBLIC SAFETY and PUBLIC RESPONSIBILTY!! Please keep the safety of others in mind during this time!!!
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading and have a lovely day!!!
> 
> My Tumblr: @ShhImAvoidingSleep


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